My Patience Has Dreadful Chilblains

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.

Guess Now Who Holds Thee?'--'death,' I Said. But, There, The Silver Answer Rang, . . . 'not Death, But Love.

Behold Me! I Am Worthy Of Thy Loving, For I Love Thee!

Yet Half The Beast Is The Great God Pan, To Laugh, As He Sits By The River, Making A Poet Out Of A Man. The True Gods Sigh For The Cost And The Pain-- For The Reed That Grows Never More Again As A Reed With The Reeds Of The River.

Of All The Thoughts Of God That Are Borne Inward Unto Souls Afar, Along The Psalmist's Music Deep, Now Tell Me If That Any Is. For Gift Or Grace, Surpassing This-- He Giveth His Beloved Sleep.