He Who Saddens At Thought Of Idleness

That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

Through The Sad Heart Of Ruth, When Sick For Home She Stood In Tears Amid The Alien Corn; The Same That Ofttimes Hath Charm'd Magic Casements, Opening On The Foam Of Perilous Seas, In Faery Lands Forlorn.

Health Is My Expected Heaven.

If Poetry Does Not Come As Naturally As Leaves To A Tree, Then It Better Not Come At All.

There Is A Budding Tomorrow In Midnight.