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.

Love can do all but raise the Dead.

At least to pray is left - is left Oh Jesus - in the Air - I know not which thy chamber is - I'm knocking everywhere.

Tell all the Truth, but tell it slant/Success in Circuit lies.

The Spirit lurks within the Flesh Like Tides within the Sea That make the Water live, estranged What would the Either be?

The sun just touched the morning; The morning, happy thing, Supposed that he had come to dwell, And life would be all spring.

These are the days when birds come back, a very few, a Bird or two, to take a backward look.