I Want A Brighter Word Than Bright

I Cannot See What Flowers Are At My Feet, Nor What Soft Incense Hangs Upon The Boughs, But, In Embalmed Darkness, Guess Each Sweet.

I Wish You Could Invent Some Means To Make Me At All Happy Without You. Every Hour I Am More And More Concentrated In You; Everything Else Tastes Like Chaff In My Mouth.

We Read Fine Things But Never Feel Them To The Full Until We Have Gone The Same Steps As The Author.

Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid Eyes.

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.