What Is Reading But Silent Conversation?

The Happiest Of Pillows Is Not That Which Love First Presses! It Is That Which Death Has Frowned On And Passed Over.

Clear Writers, Like Fountains, Do Not Seem So Deep As They Are; The Turbid Look The Most Profound.

I See The Rainbow In The Sky, The Dew Upon The Grass; I See Them, And I Ask Not Why They Glimmer Or They Pass. With Folded Arms I Linger Not To Call Them Back; 'twere Vain: In This, Or In Some Other Spot, I Know They'll Shine Again.

What Is Reading But Silent Conversation?

Ah What Avails The Sceptred Race, Ah What The Form Divine! What Every Virtue, Every Grace! Rose Aylmer, All Were Thine. Rose Aylmer, Whom These Wakeful Eyes May Weep, But Never See, A Night Of Memories And Of Sighs I Consecrate To Thee.