What If My Words Were Meant For

... When One's Outward Lot Is Perfect, The Sense Of Inward Imperfection Is The More Pressing.

We Learn Words By Rote, But Not Their Meaning; That Must Be Paid For With Our Life-blood, And Printed In The Subtle Fibres Of Our Nerves.

The Fact Is, Both Callers And Work Thicken - The Former Sadly Interfering With The Latter.

No Compliment Can Be Eloquent, Except As An Expression Of Indifference.

How Is It That The Poets Have Said So Many Fine Things About Our First Love, So Few About Our Later Love? Are Their First Poems Their Best? Or Are Not Those The Best Which Come From Their Fuller Thought, Their Larger Experience, Their Deeper-rooted Affections? The Boy's Flute-like Voice Has Its Own Spring Charm; But The Man Should Yield A Richer, Deeper Music.