The Soul Selects Her Own

I Do Not Like The Man Who Squanders Life For Fame; Give Me The Man Who Living Makes A Name.

God, Keep Me From What They Call 'households,'

A Precious, Mouldering Pleasure 't Is To Meet An Antique Book In Just The Dress His Century Wore; A Privilege, I Think, His Venerable Hand To Take, And Warming In Our Own, A Passage Back, Or Two, To Make To Times When He Was Young. His Quaint Opinions To Inspect, His Knowledge To Unfold On What Concerns Our Mutual Mind, The Literature Of Old.

I Don't Profess To Be Profound; But I Do Lay Claim To Common Sense.

... And Then I Heard Them Lift A Box, And Creak Across My Soul With Those Same Boots Of Lead, Again, Then Space Began To Toll.