But So Many Books Thou Readest, But

Nothing Could Moderate, In The Bosom Of The Great English Middle Class, Their Passionate, Absorbing, Almost Blood-thirsty Clinging To Life.

Culture, Then, Is A Study Of Perfection, And Perfection Which Insists On Becoming Something Rather Than In Having Something, In An Inward Condition Of The Mind And Spirit, Not In An Outward Set Of Circumstances.

Once Read Thy Own Breast Right, And Thou Hast Done With Fears.

Weary Of Myself, And Sick Of Asking What I Am, And What I Ought To Be, At This Vessel's Prow I Stand, Which Bears Me Forwards, Forwards, O'er The Starlit Sea.

Come To Me In My Dreams, And Then By Day I Shall Be Well Again. For Then The Night Will More Than Pay The Hopeless Longing Of The Day.