Reading Chaucer Is Like Brushing Through The

Piety Is Indifferent Whether She Enters At The Eye Or At The Ear. There Is None Of The Senses At Which She Does Not Knock One Day Or Other. The Puritans Forgot This, And Thrust Beauty Out Of The Meeting-house And Slammed The Door In Her Face.

No Mud Can Soil Us But The Mud We Throw.

The Green Grass Floweth Like A Stream Into The Oceans's Blue.

And Blessed Are The Horny Hands Of Toil.

Greatly Begin. Though Thou Have Time, But For A Line, Be That Sublime. Not Failure, But Low Aim Is Crime.