And lo, the Hospital, gray, quiet, old, Where life and death like friendly chafferers meet.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll; I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

This is the merit and distinction of art: to be more real than reality, to be not nature but nature's essence.

Now, to read poetry at all is to have an ideal anthology of one's own, and in that possession to be incapable of content with the anthologies of all the world besides.

Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.

Essayists, like poets, are born and not made, and for one worth remembering, the world is confronted with a hundred not worth reading. Your true essayist is, in a literary sense, the friend of everybody.

And lo, the Hospital, gray, quiet, old, Where life and death like friendly chafferers meet.