Books Are A Finer World Within The

The Sun Was Down, And All The West Was Paved With Sullen Fire. I Cried, Behold! The Barren Beach Of Hell At Ebb Of Tide.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October.

The Greatness Of An Artist Or A Writer Does Not Depend On What He Has In Common With Other Artists And Writers, But On What He Has Peculiar To Himself.

Nature Never Quite Goes Along With Us. She Is Somber At Weddings, Sunny At Funerals, And She Frowns On Ninety-nine Out Of A Hundred Picnics.

In Winter, When The Dismal Rain Comes Down In Slanting Lines, And Wind, That Grand Old Harper, Smote His Thunder-harp Of Pines.