Nothing Can Permanently Please, Which Doesn't Contain

That Passage Is What I Call The Sublime Dashed To Pieces By Cutting Too Close With The Fiery Four-in-hand Round The Corner Of Nonsense.

The Spirit Of Poetry, Like All Other Living Powers, Must Of Necessity Circumscribe Itself By Rules, Were It Only To Unite Power With Beauty.

A Man Of Maxims Only Is Like A Cyclops With One Eye, And That In The Back Of His Head.

That Willing Suspension Of Disbelief For The Moment, Which Constitutes Poetic Faith.

All Sympathy Not Consistent With Acknowledged Virtue Is But Disguised Selfishness.