Cut These Words And They Would Bleed;

Miracle Comes To The Miraculous, Not To The Arithmetician.

My Book Should Smell Of Pines And Resound With The Hum Of Insects.

But I Shall Hear Without Pain, That I Play The Courtier Very Ill, And Talk Of That Which I Do Not Well Understand.

The Imagination And The Senses Cannot Be Gratified At The Same Time.

Our Health Is Our Sound Relation To External Objects; Our Sympathy With External Being.