Grief Even In A Child Hates The

The Public Is A Bad Guesser.

Surely Everyone Is Aware Of The Divine Pleasures Which Attend A Wintry Fireside; Candles At Four O'clock, Warm Hearthrugs, Tea, A Fair Tea-maker, Shutters Closed, Curtains Flowing In Ample Draperies To The Floor, Whilst The Wind And Rain Are Raging Audibly Without.

Out Of The Ruined Lodge And Forgotten Mansion, Bowers That Are Trodden Under Foot, And Pleasure-houses That Are Dust, The Poet Calls Up A Palingenesis.

No Progressive Knowledge Will Ever Medicine That Dread Misgiving Of A Mysterious And Pathless Power Given To Words Of A Certain Import.

No Man Will Ever Unfold The Capacities Of His Own Intellect Who Does Not At Least Checker His Life With Solitude.