When Newton saw an apple fall, he found . . . A mode of proving that the earth turnd round In a most natural whirl, called gravitation; And thus is the sole mortal who could grapple Since Adam, with a fall or with an apple.
I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion, and that there is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever. Besides, who would ever shave themselves in such a state?