I Am Always Most Religious Upon A

All Heaven And Earth Are Still, Though Not In Sleep, But Breathless, As We Grow When Feeling Most.

The Light Of Love, The Purity Of Grace, The Mind, The Music Breathing From Her Face, The Heart Whose Softness Harmonised The Whole — And, Oh! That Eye Was In Itself A Soul!

Why Do They Call Me Misanthrope? Because They Hate Me, Not I Them.

Rough Johnson, The Great Moralist.

Who Then Will Explain The Explanation?