The Smoking Flax Before It Burst To

Some Feelings Are Quite Untranslatable; No Language Has Yet Been Found For Them. They Gleam Upon Us Beautifully Through The Dim Twilight Of Fancy, And Yet When We Bring Them Close To Us, And Hold Them Up To The Light Of Reason, Lose Their Beauty All At Once, As Glow Worms Which Gleam With Such A Spiritual Light In The Shadows Of Evening, When Brought In Where The Candles Are Lighted, Are Found To Be Only Worms Like So Many Others.

Perhaps There Lives Some Dreamy Boy, Untaught In Schools, Some Graduate Of The Field Or Street, Who Shall Become A Master Of Art, An Admiral Sailing The High Seas Of Thought Fearless And First, And Steering With His Fleet For Lands Not Yet Laid Down In Any Chart.

He That Respects Himself Is Safe From Others. He Wears A Coat Of Mail That None Can Pierce.

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls, The Burial-ground God's-acre.

When You Ask One Friend To Dine, Give Him Your Best Wine! When You Ask Two, The Second Best Will Do!