A Grave, On Which To Rest From

The Essence Of All Beauty, I Call Love, The Attribute, The Evidence, And End, The Consummation To The Inward Sense Of Beauty Apprehended From Without, I Still Call Love.

Let Us Be Content To Work To Do The Things We Can, And Not Presume To Fret Because It's Little.

The Little Cares That Fretted Me, I Lost Them Yesterday Among The Fields Above The Sea, Among The Winds At Play.

Thou Large-brain'd Woman And Large-hearted Man.

Many A Fervid Man Writes Books As Cold And Flat As Graveyard Stones.