What If My Words Were Meant For

In The Days When The Spinning Wheels Hummed Busily In The Farmhouses--and Even Great Ladies, Clothed In Silk And Thread Lace, Had Their Toy Spinning Wheels Of Polished Oak--there Might Be Seen, In Districts Far Away Among The Lanes, Or Deep In The Bosom Of The Hills, Certain Palled Undersized Men Who, By The Side Of The Brawny Country-folk, Looked Like The Remnants Of A Disinherited Race.

What Novelty Is Worth That Sweet Monotony Where Everything Is Known, And Loved Because It Is Known?

... When One's Outward Lot Is Perfect, The Sense Of Inward Imperfection Is The More Pressing.

I At Least Have So Much To Do In Unraveling Certain Human Lots, And Seeing How They Were Woven And Interwoven, That All The Light I Can Command Must Be Concentrated On This Particular Web, And Not Dispersed Over That Tempting Range Of Relevancies Called The Universe.

Do We Not All Agree To Call Rapid Thought And Noble Impulse By The Name Of Inspiration?