We Turn Not Older With Years But

Nature Is A Haunted House--but Art--is A House That Tries To Be Haunted.

Affection Is Like Bread, Unnoticed Till We Starve, And Then We Dream Of It, And Sing Of It, And Paint It, When Every Urchin In The Street Has More Than He Can Eat.

Look Back On Time With Kindly Eyes, He Doubtless Did His Best; How Softly Sinks His Trembling Sun In Human Nature's West!

To Possess Is Past The Instant; We Achieve The Joy, Immortality Contented, Were Anomaly.

I Dwell In Possibilities .