The Tempered Light Of The Woods Is

Pain, Indolence, Sterility, Endless Ennui Have Also Their Lesson For You, If You Are Great.

Nor Sequent Centuries Could Hitorbit And Sum Of Shakespeare's Wit.

I Shun Father And Mother And Wife And Brother When My Genius Calls Me. I Would Write On The Lintels Of The Door-post, Whim. I Hope That It Is Somewhat Better Than Whim At Last, But We Cannot Spend The Day In Explanation.

So Shall We Come To Look At The World With New Eyes.

The Moment We Indulge Our Affections, The Earth Is Metamorphosed.