Of Writing Many Books There Is No

But I Love You, Sir: And When A Woman Says She Loves A Man, The Man Must Hear Her, Though He Love Her Not.

I F Thou Must Love Me, Let It Be For Nought Except For Love's Sake Only. Do Not Say, I Love Her For Her Smile ... Her Look ... Her Way Of Speaking Gently ... For A Trick Of Thought That Falls In Well With Mine, And, Certes, Brought A Sense Of Pleasant Ease On Such A Day- For These Things In Themselves, Beloved, May Be Changed, Or Change For Thee-and Love So Wrought, May Be Unwrought So.

Experience, Like A Pale Musician, Holds A Dulcimer Of Patience In His Hand.

The Holy Night We Sate Among The Stalls At Bethlehem; The Dumb Kine From Their Fodder Turning Them, Softened Their Horned Faces To Almost Human Gazes Toward The Newly Born: The Simple Shepherds From The Star-lit Brooks Brought Visionary Looks, As Yet In Their Astonied Hearing Rung The Strange Sweet Angel-tongue: The Magi Of The East, In Sandals Worn, Knelt Reverent, Sweeping Round, With Long Pale Beards, Their Gifts Upon The Ground, The Incense, Myrrh, And Gold These Baby Hands Were Impotent To Hold: So Let All Earthlies And Celestials Wait Upon Thy Royal State. Sleep, Sleep, My Kingly One!

The Sweetest Lives Are Those To Duty Wed, Whose Deeds, Both Great And Small Are Close-knot Strands Of An Unbroken Thread There Love Ennobles All. The World May Sound No Trumpets, Ring No Bells The Book Of Life The Shining Record Tells. Thy Love Shall Chant Its Own Beatitudes After Its Own Life-workings. A Child's Kiss Set On Thy Sighing Lips Shall Make Thee Glad; A Poor Man Served By Thee Shall Make Thee Rich; A Sick Man Helped By Thee Shall Make Thee Strong; Thou Shalt Serve Thyself By Every Sense, Of Service Which Thou Renderest.