You're Something Between A Dream

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End; And I Who Have Written Much In Prose And Verse For Others' Uses, Will Write Now For Mine,- Will Write My Story For My Better Self, As When You Paint Your Portrait For A Friend, Who Keeps It In A Drawer And Looks At It Long After He Has Ceased To Love You, Just To Hold Together What He Was And Is.

Or From Browning Some "pomegranate," Which If Cut Deep Down The Middle Shows A Heart Within Blood-tinctured, Of A Veined Humanity.

The Soul's Rialto Hath Its Merchandise, I Barter For Curl Upon That Mart.

Earth's Crammed With Heaven, And Every Common Bush Afire With God: But Only He Who Sees Takes Off His Shoes.

Oh, A Day In The City-square, There Is No Such Pleasure In Life!