Every Genuine Work Of Art Has As

We Do Not Quite Forgive A Giver. The Hand That Feeds Us Is In Some Danger Of Being Bitten. We Can Receive Anything From Love, Forthat Is A Way Of Receiving It From Ourselves; But Not From Any One Who Assumes To Bestow. We Sometimes Hate The Meat Which We Eat, Because There Seems Something Of Degrading Dependence In Living It.

It Is A Tie Between Men To Have Read The Same Book.

The Good Rain, Like A Bad Preacher, Does Not Know When To Leave Off.

For Flowers That Bloom About Our Feet; For Tender Grass, So Fresh, So Sweet; For Song Of Bird, And Hum Of Bee; For All Things Fair We Hear Or See, Father In Heaven, We Thank Thee!

The True Scholar Grudges Every Opportunity Of Action Passed, By, As A Loss Of Power.