The Nunneries Of Silent Nooks, The Murmured

Like Streams That Keep A Summer Mind Snow-hid In Jenooary.

Our Seasons Have No Fixed Returns, Without Our Will They Come And Go; At Noon Our Sudden Summer Burns, Ere Sunset All Is Snow.

It Is The Privilege Of Genius That Life Never Grows Common Place, As It Does For The Rest Of Us.

Here Was A Type Of The True Elder Race, And One Of Plutarch's Men Talked With Us Face To Face.

All The Beautiful Sentiments In The World Weigh Less Than A Single Lovely Action.