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.

The steeples swam in amethyst, the news like squirrels swam.

Friends are nations in themselves.

Drunkards of summer are quite as frequent as Drunkards of wine.

Existence has overpowered Books. Today I slew a Mushroom.

The possible's slow fuse is lit by the Imagination.

A great hope fell You heard no noise The ruin was within.