I'd Like To Grow Very Old As

The Drinking Man Is Never Less Himself Than During His Sober Intervals.

Oh Call It By Some Better Name, For Friendship Sounds Too Cold.

When I Am Not Walking, I Am Reading. I Cannot Sit And Think.

What A Place To Be In Is An Old Library! It Seems As Though All The Souls Of All The Writers That Have Bequeathed Their Labours To These Bodleians Were Reposing Here As In Some Dormitory, Or Middle State. I Do Not Want To Handle, To Profane The Leaves, Their Winding-sheets. I Could As Soon Dislodge A Shade. I Seem To Inhale Learning, Walking Amid Their Foliage; And The Odor Of Their Old Moth-scented Coverings Is Fragrant As The First Bloom Of The Sciential Apples Which Grew Amid The Happy Orchard.

The Light That Lies In Woman's Eyes.