A Single Soul Is Richer Than All

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.

We Have Two Lives; The Soul Of Man Is Like The Rolling World, One Half In Day, The Other Dipt In Night; The One Has Music And The Flying Cloud, The Other, Silence And The Wakeful Stars.

Everything Is Sweetened By Risk.

Seated In My Library At Night, And Looking On The Silent Faces Of My Books, I Am Occasionally Visited By A Strange Sense Of The Supernatural.

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.