Your Voice And Music Are The Same

At The Great Iron Gate Of The Churchyard He Stopped And Looked In. He Looked Up At The High Tower Spectrally Resisting The Wind, And He Looked Round At The White Tombstones, Like Enough To The Dead In Their Winding-sheets, And He Counted The Nine Tolls Of The Clock-bell.

I Believe No Satirist Could Breathe This Air. If Another Juvenal Or Swift Could Rise Up Among Us Tomorrow, He Would Be Hunted Down. If You Have Any Knowledge Of Our Literature, And Can Give Me The Name Of Any Man, American Born And Bred, Who Has Anatomised Our Follies As A People, And Not As This Or That Party; And Who Has Escaped The Foulest And Most Brutal Slander, The Most Inveterate Hatred And Intolerant Pursuit; It Will Be A Strange Name In My Ears, Believe Me.

The Aphorism "whatever Is, Is Right," Would Be As Final As It Is Lazy, Did It Not Include The Troublesome Consequence That Nothing That Ever Was, Was Wrong.

If A Dread Of Not Being Understood Be Hidden In The Breasts Of Other Young People To Anything Like The Extent To Which It Used To Be Hidden In Mine - Which I Consider Probable, As I Have No Particular Reason To Suspect Myself Of Having Been A Monstrosity - It Is The Key To Many Reservations.

Time Was With Most Of Us, When Christmas Day, Encircling All Our Limited World Like A Magic Ring, Left Nothing Out For Us To Miss Or Seek; Bound Together All Our Home Enjoyments, Affections, And Hopes; Grouped Everything And Everyone Round The Christmas Fire, And Make The Little Picture Shining In Our Bright Young Eyes, Complete.