Tools Have Their Own Integrity.

I Cannot Bear That You / Should Think Me Faithful, When I Am Untrue.

Everywhere Bees Go Racing With The Hours, / For Every Bee Becomes A Drunken Lover, / Standing Upon His Head To Sup The Flowers.

Summer Makes A Silence After Spring.

I Suppose The Pleasure Of The Country Life Lies Really In The Eternally Renewed Evidences Of The Determination To Live. That Is A Truism When Said, But Anything But A Truism When Daily Observed. Nothing Shows Up The Difference Between The Thing Said Or Read, So Much As The Daily Experience Of It.

A Flowerless Room Is A Soulless Room, To My Way Of Thinking; But Even A Solitary Little Vase Of A Living Flower May Redeem It.