With Every Anguish Of Our

In All Literary History There Is No Such Figure As Dante, No Such Homogeneousness Of Life And Works, Such Loyalty To Ideas, Such Sublime Irrecognition Of The Unessential.

The Sentimentalist Does Not Think Of What He Does So Much As Of What The World Will Think Of What He Does.

An Angel Stood And Met My Gaze, Through The Low Doorway Of My Tent; The Tent Is Struck, The Vision Stays; I Only Know She Came And Went.

Earth Gets Its Price For What Earth Gives Us.

There Is No Bore We Dread Being Left Alone With So Much As Our Own Minds.