A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit.

O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.

What am I pondering, you ask? So help me God, immortality.

Pleas'd me, long choosing and beginning late.

For neither man nor angel can discern hypocrisy, the only evil that walks invisible, except to God alone.

My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!