Oh, A Day In The City-square, There

New Angel Mine, Unhoped For In The World!

What Is Art But The Life Upon The Larger Scale, The Higher. When, Graduating Up In A Spiral Line Of Still Expanding And Ascending Gyres, It Pushes Toward The Intense Significance Of All Things, Hungry For The Infinite?

For 'tis Not In Mere Death That Men Die Most.

Behold Me! I Am Worthy Of Thy Loving, For I Love Thee!

A Man May Love A Woman Perfectly, And Yet By No Means Ignorantly Maintain A Thousand Women Have Not Larger Eyes. Enough That She Alone Has Looked At Him With Eyes That, Large Or Small, Have Won His Soul.