A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is To meet an antique book In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think, His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young. His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old.

You don't have to be a house to be haunted.

To be alive──is Power.

I dwell in possibilities... a fairer house than prose.

Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.

The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.

We never know how high we are till we are called to rise. Then if we are true to form our statures touch the skies.