“Susie, what shall I do - there is'nt room enough; not half enough, to hold what I was going to say. Wont you tell the man who makes sheets of paper, that I hav'nt the slightest respect for him!”

“Till I loved I never liked enough.”

“Forgive me if I never visit. I am from the fields, you know, and while quite at home with the dandelions, make a sorry figure in a drawing room.”

“What inn is thisWhere for the nightPeculiar traveller comes?Who is the landlord?Where are the maids?Behold, what curious rooms!No ruddy fires on the hearth,No brimming tankards flow.Necromancer, landlord,Who are these below?”

“If you were coming in the fall,I'd brush the summer by,With half a smile and half a spurn,As housewives do a fly.If I could see you in a year,I'd wind the months in balls,And put them each in separate drawers,Until their time befalls.”

“I fear a Man of frugal speech -I fear a Silent Man -Haranguer - I can overtake -Or Babbler - entertain -But He who weigheth - While the Rest -Expend their furthest pound -Of this Man - I am wary -I fear that He is Grand -”

“A precious mouldering pleasure 't isTo 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 makeTo times when he was young.His quaint opinions to inspect,His knowledge to unfoldOn what concerns our mutual mind.The literature of old;What interested scholars most,What competitions ranWhen Plato was a certainty,And Sophocles a man;When Sappho was a living girl,And Beatrice woreThe gown that Dante deified.Facts, centuries before,He traverses familiar,As one should come to townAnd tell you all your dreams were true:He lived where dreams were born.His presence is enchantment,You beg him not to go;Old volumes shake their vellum headsAnd tantalize just so.”