True Art Selects And Paraphrases, But Seldom

Wide Open And Unguarded Stand Our Gates, And Through Them Presses A Wild Motley Throng, Men From The Volga And The Tartar Steppes, Featureless Figures Of The Hoang-ho, Malayan, Scythian, Teuton, Kelt, And Slav. Flying The Old World's Poverty And Scorn, These Bringing With Them Unknown Gods And Rites, Ttose, Tiger Passions, Here To Stretch Their Claws In Street And Alley. What Strange Tongues Are Loud Accents Of Menace Alien To Our Air, Voices That Once The Tower Of Babel Knew! O Liberty, White Goddess! Is It Well To Leave The Gates Unguarded?

It Is Only Your Habitual Late Riser Who Takes In The Full Flavor Of Nature At Those Rare Intervals When He Gets Up To Go Afishing. He Brings Virginal Emotions And Unsatiated Eyes To The Sparkling Freshness Of Earth And Stream And Sky.

What Is A Day To An Immortal Soul! A Breath, No More.

Everyone Has A Bookplate These Days, And The Collectors Are After It. The Fool And His Bookplate Are Soon Parted. To Distribute One's Ex Libris Is Inanely To Destroy The Only Significance It Has, That Of Indicating The Past Or Present Ownership Of The Volume In Which It Is Placed.

It Was Pleasant To Me To Get A Letter From You The Other Day. Perhaps I Should Have Found It Pleasanter If I Had Been Able To Decipher It. I Don't Think That I Mastered Anything Beyond The Date (which I Knew) And The Signature (which I Guessed At). There's A Singular And A Perpetual Charm In A Letter Of Yours; It Never Grows Old, It Never Loses Its Novelty. Other Letters Are Read And Thrown Away And Forgotten, But Yours Are Kept Forever - Unread. One Of Them Will Last A Reasonable Man A Lifetime.