Life Is A Stream On Which We

Happiness, To Some, Is Elation; To Others It Is Mere Stagnation.

Everything Mortal Has Moments Immortal

I Do Not Suppose That Anyone Not A Poet Can Realize The Agony Of Creating A Poem. Every Nerve, Even Every Muscle, Seems Strained To The Breaking Point. The Poem Will Not Be Denied; To Refuse To Write It Would Be A Greater Torture. It Tears Its Way Out Of The Brain, Splintering And Breaking Its Passage, And Leaves That Organ In The State Of A Jelly-fish When The Task Is Done.

All Recurring Joy Is Pain Refined.

Happiness, To Some, Elation; Is, To Others, Mere Stagnation.