Longing, It May Be, Is The Gift

The Appetite For Silence Is Seldom An Acquired Taste.

To Multiply The Harbors Does Not Reduce The Sea.

The Service Without Hope Is Tenderest, I Think-- ... There Is No Diligence Like That That Knows Not An Until

Inebriate Of Air Am I, And Debauchee Of Dew, Reeling, Through Endless Summer Days, From Inns Of Molten Blue.

They Say That God Is Everywhere, And Yet We Always Think Of Him As Somewhat Of A Recluse.