It Was The Touch Of The Imperfect

It Was That Period In The Vernal Quarter When We May Suppose The Dryads To Be Waking For The Season. The Vegetable World Begins To Move And Swell And The Saps To Rise, Till In The Completest Silence Of Lone Gardens And Trackless Plantations, Where Everything Seems Helpless And Still After The Bond And Slavery Of Frost, There Are Bustlings, Strainings, United Thrusts, And Pulls-all-together, In Comparison With Which The Powerful Tugs Of Cranes And Pulleys In A Noisy City Are But Pigmy Efforts.

...our Impulses Are Too Strong For Our Judgement Sometimes

He Knelt And Bent Lower, Till Her Breath Warmed His Face, And In A Moment His Cheek Was In Contact With Hers. She Was Sleeping Soundly, And Upon Her Eyelashes There Lingered Tears.

Let Truth Be Told - Women Do As A Rule Live Through Such Humiliations, And Regain Their Spirits, And Again Look About Them With An Interested Eye. While There's Life There's Hope Is A Connviction Not So Entirely Unknown To The "betrayed" As Some Amiable Theorists Would Have Us Believe.

Did You Say The Stars Were Worlds, Tess?" "yes." "all Like Ours?" "i Don't Know, But I Think So. They Sometimes Seem To Be Like The Apples On Our Stubbard-tree. Most Of Them Splendid And Sound - A Few Blighted." "which Do We Live On - A Splendid One Or A Blighted One?" "a Blighted One.