I know nothing in the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and I look at it, until it begins to shine.

A Word is DeadA word is deadWhen it is said,Some say. I say it justBegins to liveThat day.

There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands awayNor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry – This Traverse may the poorest takeWithout oppress of Toll – How frugal is the Chariot That bears a Human soul.

He ate and drank the precious words,His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was dust.He danced along the dingy days,And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What libertyA loosened spirit brings!

A precious, mouldering pleasure ’tis 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

A precious, mouldering pleasure ’t is To meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege, I think.

Could mortal lip divineThe undeveloped freightOf a delivered syllable,'T would crumble with the weight.

A letter always feels to me like Immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend.

I am glad you have an hour for books, those enthralling friends, the immortalities...