The Plague Of Gold Strikes Far And

The Tyrant Should Take Heed To What He Doth, Since Every Victim-carrion Turns To Use, And Drives A Chariot, Like A God Made Wroth, Against Each Piled Injustice.

A Great Man Leaves Clean Work Behind Him, And Requires No Sweeper Up Of The Chips.

Like To Write? Of Course, Of Course I Do. I Seem To Live While I Write - It Is Life, For Me.

You May Write Twenty Lines One Day--or Even Three Like Euripides In Three Days--and A Hundred Lines In One More Day--and Yet On The Hundred, May Have Been Expended As Much Good Work, As On The Twenty And The Three.

Books, Books, Books! I Had Found The Secret Of A Garret Room Piled High With Cases In My Father’s Name; Piled High, Packed Large,--where, Creeping In And Out Among The Giant Fossils Of My Past, Like Some Small Nimble Mouse Between The Ribs Of A Mastodon, I Nibbled Here And There At This Or That Box, Pulling Through The Gap, In Heats Of Terror, Haste, Victorious Joy, The First Book First. And How I Felt It Beat Under My Pillow, In The Morning’s Dark, An Hour Before The Sun Would Let Me Read! My Books!