A Vein Of Poetry Exists In The

In Books Lies The Soul Of The Whole Past Time; The Articulate Audible Voice Of The Past, When The Body And Material Substance Of It Has Altogether Vanished Like A Dream.

For Man Is Not The Creature And Product Of Mechanism; But, In A Far Truer Sense, Its Creator And Producer.

Rightly Viewed No Meanest Object Is Insignificant; All Objects Are As Windows Through Which The Philosophic Eye Looks Into Infinitude Itself.

No Good Book Or Good Thing Of Any Kind Shows It Best Face At First. No The Most Common Quality Of In A True Work Of Art That Has Excellence And Depth, Is That At First Sight It Produces A Certain Disappointment.

It Is The First Of All Problems For A Man To Find Out What Kind Of Work He Is To Do In This Universe.