To me at least was never evening yet, but seemed far beautifuller than its day.

The body sprang At once to the height, and stayed; but the soul,-no!

How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark Autumn evenings come, And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life’s November too! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O’er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose!

All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.

Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat.

There is an inmost center in us all, where truth abides in fullness;....and, to know, rather consists in opening out a way where the imprisoned splendor may escape, then in effecting entry for a light supposed to be without.

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!