Quick-loving Hearts ... May Quickly Loathe.

And Yet, Because I Love Thee, I Obtain From That Same Love This Vindicating Grace, To Live On Still In Love, And Yet In Vain

Measure Not The Work Until The Day's Out And The Labor Done.

Books, Books, Books! I Had Found The Secret Of A Garret Room Piled High With Cases In My Father’s Name; Piled High, Packed Large,--where, Creeping In And Out Among The Giant Fossils Of My Past, Like Some Small Nimble Mouse Between The Ribs Of A Mastodon, I Nibbled Here And There At This Or That Box, Pulling Through The Gap, In Heats Of Terror, Haste, Victorious Joy, The First Book First. And How I Felt It Beat Under My Pillow, In The Morning’s Dark, An Hour Before The Sun Would Let Me Read! My Books!

The Beautiful Seems Right By Force Of Beauty And The Feeble Wrong Because Of Weakness.

Like To Write? Of Course, Of Course I Do. I Seem To Live While I Write - It Is Life, For Me.