The Business Of The Poet And The

Time Changes Everything Except Something Within Us Which Is Always Surprised By Change.

There Is Always An Inertia To Be Overcome In Striking Out A New Line Of Conduct – Not More In Ourselves, It Seems, Than In Circumscribing Events, Which Appear As If Leagued Together To Allow No Novelties In The Way Of Amelioration.

It Was The Touch Of The Imperfect Upon The Would-be Perfect That Gave The Sweetness, Because It Was That Which Gave The Humanity

He Looked And Smelt Like Autumn's Very Brother, His Face Being Sunburnt To Wheat-colour, His Eyes Blue As Corn-flowers, His Sleeves And Leggings Dyed With Fruit-stains, His Hands Clammy With The Sweet Juice Of Apples, His Hat Sprinkled With Pips, And Everywhere About Him The Sweet Atmosphere Of Cider Which At Its First Return Each Season Has Such An Indescribable Fascination For Those Who Have Been Born And Bred Among The Orchards.

To Have Lost Is Less Disturbing Than To Wonder If We May Possibly Have Won; And Eustacia Could Now, Like Other People At Such A Stage, Take A Standing-point Outside Herself, Observe Herself As A Disinterested Spectator, And Think What A Sport For Heaven This Woman Eustacia Was.