An Observer Of Men Who Finds Himself

"and When You Had Made Sure Of The Poor Little Fool," Said My Aunt - "god Forgive Me That I Should Call Her So, And She Gone Where You Won't Go In A Hurry - Because You Had Not Done Wrong Enough To Her And Hers, You Must Begin To Train Her, Must You? Begin To Break Her, Like A Poor Caged Bird, And Wear Her Deluded Life Away, In Teaching Her To Sing Your Notes?"

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.

Mr. Bazzard's Father, Being A Norfolk Farmer, Would Have Furiously Laid About Him With A Flail, A Pitch-fork, And Every Agricultural Implement Available For Assaulting Purposes, On The Slightest Hint Of His Son's Having Written A Play.

We Never Tire Of The Friendships We Form With Books.

All Through It, I Have Known Myself To Be Quite Undeserving. And Yet I Have Had The Weakness, And Have Still The Weakness, To Wish You To Know With What A Sudden Mastery You Kindled Me, Heap Of Ashes That I Am, Into Fire- A Fire, However, Inseparable In Its Nature From Myself, Quickening Nothing, Lighting Nothing, Doing No Service, Idly Burning Away.