How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.

Behold, we know not anything;I can but trust that good shall fallAt last — far off — at last, to all,And every winter change to spring.

The kind of poetry to avoid in the pretty-pretty kind that pleased our grandmothers, the kind that Longfellow and Tennyson, good poets at their best, wrote at their worst.

Chemistry has the same quickening and suggestive influence upon the algebraist as a visit to the Royal Academy, or the old masters may be supposed to have on a Browning or a Tennyson. Indeed it...

Her problem is with pretty,” Tennyson said. “She thinks I’ll need all these dresses in college. Like I would ever in a billion years pledge a sorority. I’ll pack a few of these to be...

…you are my Lady of Shalott lost in a dream of isolation – I care too much for you – I romanticize depression…