All clean and comfortable I sit down to write.

This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood, So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calm'd. See, here it is-- I hold it towards you.

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.

We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.

His religion at best is an anxious wish,-like that of Rabelais, a great Perhaps.

I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.

The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled.