You Smell A Rose Through A Fence:

Souls Are Gregarious In A Sense, But No Soul Touches Another, As A General Rule.

What I Do And What I Dream Include Thee, As The Wine Must Taste Of Its Own Grapes.

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben, Whose Fire-hearts Sowed Our Furrows When The World Was Worthy Of Such Men.

Suddenly, As Rare Things Will, It Vanished.

We Get No Good By Being Ungenerous, Even To A Book, And Calculating Profits--so Much Help By So Much Reading. It Is Rather When We Gloriously Forget Ourselves, And Plunge Soul-forward, Headlong, Into A Book's Profound, Impassioned For Its Beauty, And Salt Of Truth-- 'tis Then We Get The Right Good From A Book.