It Was A High Counsel That I

Many Critics Are Like Woodpeckers, Who, Instead Of Enjoying The Fruit And Shadow Of A Tree, Hop Incessantly Around The Trunk, Pecking Holes In The Bark To Discover Some Little Worm Or Other.

Gone Are The Birds That Were Our Summer Guests.

I Know Not How It Is, But During A Voyage I Collect Books As A Ship Does Barnacles.

Nature Paints Not; In Oils, But Frescoes The Great Dome Of Heaven; With Sunsets, And The Lovely Forms Of Clouds; And Flying Vapors.

He Had Mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic Mittens Made Of Deer-skin; When Upon His Hands He Wore Them, He Could Smite The Rocks Asunder, He Could Grind Them Into Powder.