Books Are A Finer World Within The

There Is A Certain Even-handed Justice In Time; And For What He Takes Away He Gives Us Something In Return. He Robs Us Of Elasticity Of Limb And Spirit, And In Its Place He Brings Tranquility And Repose—the Mild Autumnal Weather Of The Soul.

Death Is The Ugly Fact Which Nature Has To Hide, And She Hides It Well.

Pride's Chickens Have Bonny Feathers, But They Are An Expensive Brood To Rear. They Eat Up Everything, And Are Always Lean When Brought To Market.

In My Garden I Spend My Days; In My Library I Spend My Nights.

A Poem Round And Perfect As A Star.