Twin loaves of bread have just been born into the world under my auspices. Fine children, the image of their mother. And here, my dear friend, is the glory.

Some Arrows slay but whom they strike - But this slew all but him - Who so appareled his Escape - Too trackless for a Tomb

One need not be a chamber to be haunted; One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place.

The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee.

Had we less to say to those we love, perhaps we should say it oftener.

Noon - is the Hinge of Day-.

Just a turn of the doorknob, and there lies freedom.