Friends, The Soil Is Poor, We Must

There Is An Energy Which Springs From Sickness And Debility: It Has A More Powerful Effect Than The Real, But, Sadly, Expires In An Even Greater Infirmity.

Not Only England, But Every Englishman Is An Island.

The Art Of Writing Books Is Not Yet Invented. But It Is At The Point Of Being Invented. Fragments Of This Nature Are Literary Seeds. There May Be Many An Infertile Grain Among Them: Nevertheless, If Only Some Come Up!

Where Are We Really Going? Always Home.

It Is Not Merely The Multiplicity Of Tints, The Gladness Of Tone, Or The Balminess Of The Air Which Delight In The Spring; It Is The Still Consecrated Spirit Of Hope, The Prophecy Of Happy Days Yet To Come; The Endless Variety Of Nature, With Presentiments Of Eternal Flowers Which Never Shall Fade, And Sympathy With The Blessedness Of The Ever-developing World.