When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.

poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.

The budding rose above the rose full blown.

This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.