The Bow Always Strung ... Will Not

Religion Can Only Change When The Emotions Which Fill It Are Changed; And The Religion Of Personal Fear Remains Nearly At The Level Of The Savage.

It Is Impossible, To Me At Least, To Be Poetical In Cold Weather.

It Is Necessary To Me, Not Simply To Be But To Utter, And I Require Utterance Of My Friends.

The Finest Language Is Mostly Made Up Of Simple Unimposing Words.

A Girl Of Eighteen Imagines The Feelings Behind The Face That Has Moved Her With Its Sympathetic Youth As Easily As Primitive People Imagined The Humors Of The Gods In Fair Weather. What Is She To Believe In If Not In This Vision Woven From Within?