Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still.

A wise skepticism is the first attribute of a good critic.

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, himself, his hungering neighbor and me.

Ah, in this world, where every guiding thread Ends suddenly in the one sure centre, death, The visionary hand of Might-have-been Alone can fill Desire's cup to the brim!

I who still pray at morning and at eve Thrice in my life perhaps have truly prayed, Thrice stirred below conscious self Have felt that perfect disenthrallment which is God.

Nature fits all her children with something to do, he who would write and can't write, can surely review.

The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, and still fluttered down the snow.