Old Age Comes On Suddenly, And Not

A Precious, Mouldering Pleasure 't Is To Meet An Antique Book In Just The Dress His Century Wore; A Privilege, I Think, His Venerable Hand To Take, And Warming In Our Own, A Passage Back, Or Two, To Make To Times When He Was Young. His Quaint Opinions To Inspect, His Knowledge To Unfold On What Concerns Our Mutual Mind, The Literature Of Old.

We Outgrow Love Like Other Things And Put It In A Drawer, Till It An Antique Fashion Shows Like Costumes Grandsires Wore.

I Felt A Cleaving In My Mind- As If My Brain Had Split- I Tried To Match It- Seam By Seam- But Could Not Make It Fit.

God, Keep Me From What They Call 'households,'

A Light Exists In Spring Not Present On The Year At Any Other Period - When March Is Scarcely Here A Color Stands Abroad On Solitary Fields That Science Cannot Overtake But Human Nature Feels. It Waits Upon The Lawn, It Shows The Furthest Tree Upon The Furthest Slope You Know It Almost Speaks To You. Then As Horizons Step Or Noons Report Away Without The Formula Of Sound It Passes And We Stay - A Quality Of Loss Affecting Our Content As Trade Had Suddenly Encroached Upon A Sacrament.