A Courteous, Yet Harrowing Grace, As Guest,

You Cannot Put A Fire Out! A Thing That Can Ignite Can Go Itself- Without A Flame- E'en Through The Darkest Night!

If I Read A Book And It Makes My Whole Body So Cold No Fire Can Warm Me, I Know That Is Poetry. If I Feel Physically As If The Top Of My Head Were Taken Off, I Know That Is Poetry. These Are The Only Ways I Know It. Is There Any Other Way?

Portraits Are To Daily Faces As An Evening West To A Fine, Pedantic Sunshine In A Satin Vest.

Had We Less To Say To Those We Love, Perhaps We Should Say It Oftener.

A Precious, Mouldering Pleasure 't Is To Meet An Antique Book In Just The Dress His Century Wore; A Privilege, I Think, His Venerable Hand To Take, And Warming In Our Own, A Passage Back, Or Two, To Make To Times When He Was Young. His Quaint Opinions To Inspect, His Knowledge To Unfold On What Concerns Our Mutual Mind, The Literature Of Old.