“Exchanging HatsUnfunny uncles who insistin trying on a lady's hat,--oh, even if the joke falls flat,we share your slight transvestite twistin spite of our embarrassment.Costume and custom are complex.The headgear of the other sexinspires us to experiment.Anandrous aunts, who, at the beachwith paper plates upon your laps,keep putting on the yachtsmen's capswith exhibitionistic screech,the visors hanging o'er the earso that the golden anchors drag,--the tides of fashion never lag.Such caps may not be worn next year.Or you who don the paper plateitself, and put some grapes upon it,or sport the Indian's feather bonnet,--perversities may aggravatethe natural madness of the hatter.And if the opera hats collapseand crowns grow draughty, then, perhaps,he thinks what might a miter matter?Unfunny uncle, you who wore ahat too big, or one too many,tell us, can't you, are there anystars inside your black fedora?Aunt exemplary and slim,with avernal eyes, we wonderwhat slow changes they see undertheir vast, shady, turned-down brim.”

“--Even losing you (a joking voice, a gesture/ I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident/ the art of losing's not too hard to master/ though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.”

“Oh, must we dream our dreamsand have them, too?”

“Secrets have power. And that power diminishes when they are shared, so they are best kept and kept well. Sharing secrets, real secrets, important ones, with even one other person, will change them. Writing them down is worse, because who can tell how many eyes might see them inscribed on paper, no matter how careful you might be with it. So it's really best to keep your secrets when you have them, for their own good, as well as yours.”

“We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer.'You will, will you?'Yes,' said Dumbledore simply, 'I shall.”

“The art of losing isn't hard to master;so many things seem filled with the intentto be lost that their loss is no disaster.Lose something every day. Accept the flusterof lost door keys, the hour badly spent.The art of losing isn't hard to master.Then practice losing farther, losing faster:places, and names, and where it was you meantto travel. None of these will bring disaster.I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, ornext-to-last, of three loved houses went.The art of losing isn't hard to master.I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gestureI love) I shan't have lied. It's evidentthe art of losing's not too hard to masterthough it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.”

“I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,icily free above the stones,above the stones and then the world.If you should dip your hand in,your wrist would ache immediately,your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burnas if the water were a transmutation of firethat feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,then briny, then surely burn your tongue.It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,drawn form the cold hard mouthof the world, derived from the rocky breastsforever, flowing and drawn, and sinceour knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.”