Here Undoubtedly Lies The Chief Poetic Energy:

There Is No Sorrow I Have Thought More About Than That-to Love What Is Great, And Try To Reach It, And Yet To Fail.

That Is The Bitterest Of All,--to Wear The Yoke Of Our Own Wrong-doing.

All Writing Seems To Me Worse In The State Of Proof Than In Any Other Form. In Manuscript One's Own Wisdom Is Rather Remarkable To One, But In Proof It Has The Effect Of One's Private Furniture Repeated In The Shop Windows. And Then There Is The Sense That The Worst Errors Will Go To Press Unnoticed!

We Are Not Apt To Fear For The Fearless, When We Are Companions In Their Danger.

The Human Heart Finds Nowhere Shelter But In Human Kind.