Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.

The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!

One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.

He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.