Stirling, Like A Huge Brooch, Clasps Highlands

I Go Into My Library And All History Unrolls Before Me.

A Tender Sadness Drops Upon My Soul, Like The Soft Twilight Dropping On The World.

The Greatness Of An Artist Or A Writer Does Not Depend On What He Has In Common With Other Artists And Writers, But On What He Has Peculiar To Himself.

The Man Who In This World Can Keep The Whiteness Of His Soul Is Not Likely To Lose It In Any Other.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October.