A Pleasure So Exquisite As Almost To

We Lose In Depth Of Expression When We Go To Inferior Animals For Comparisons With Human Beauty. Homer Calls Juno Ox-eyed; And The Epithet Suits Well With The Eyes Of That Goddess, Because She May Be Supposed, With All Her Beauty, To Want A Certain Humanity. Her Large Eyes Look At You With A Royal Indifference.

Affection, Like Melancholy, Magnifies Trifles; But The Magnifying Of The One Is Like Looking Through A Telescope At Heavenly Objects; That Of The Other, Like Enlarging Monsters With A Microscope.

The Golden Line Is Drawn Between Winter And Summer. Behind All Is Blackness And Darkness And Dissolution. Before Is Hope, And Soft Airs, And The Flowers, And The Sweet Season Of Hay; And People Will Cross The Fields, Reading Or Walking With One Another; And Instead Of The Rain That Soaks Death Into The Heart Of Green Things, Will Be The Rain Which They Drink With Delight; And There Will Be Sleep On The Grass At Midday, And Early Rising In The Morning, And Long Moonlight Evenings.

Great Women Belong To History And To Self-sacrifice, Not To The Annals Of A Stage, However Dignified.

There Are Two Worlds: The World That We Can Measure With Line And Rule, And The World We Feel With Our Hearts And Imaginations.