If I Were Asked What Book Is

There Comes Emerson First, Whose Rich Words, Every One, Are Like Gold Nails In Temples To Hang Trophies On.

Nature, They Say, Doth Dote, And Cannot Make A Man Save On Some Worn-out Plan Repeating Us By Rote: For Him Her Old World Moulds Aside She Threw And, Choosing Sweet Clay From The Breast Of The Unexhausted West, With Stuff Untainted Shaped A Hero New.

A Weed Is No More Than A Flower In Disguise.

If One Waits For The Right Time To Come Before Writing, The Right Time Never Comes.

Piety Is Indifferent Whether She Enters At The Eye Or At The Ear. There Is None Of The Senses At Which She Does Not Knock One Day Or Other. The Puritans Forgot This, And Thrust Beauty Out Of The Meeting-house And Slammed The Door In Her Face.