The Critic Does His Utmost To Blight

A Book That Furnishes No Quotations, Is Me Judice, No Book, — It Is A Plaything.

I Like The Immaterial World. I Like To Live Among Thoughts And Images Of The Past And The Possible, And Even Of The Impossible, Now And Then.

But Though First Love's Impassioned Blindness Has Passed Away In Colder Light, I Still Have Thought Of You With Kindness, And Shall Do, Till Our Last Goodnight. The Ever-rolling Silent Hours Will Bring A Time We Shall Not Know, When Our Young Days Of Gathering Flowers Will Be An Hundred Years Ago.

The Juice Of The Grape Is The Liquid Quintessence Of Concentrated Sunbeams.

Time Is Lord Of Thee: Thy Wealth, Thy Glory, And Thy Name Are His.