Last week I tossed at you a bunch of gorgeous exposition by Melville Davisson Post, to make you all sit in front of your computers with the goofy smiles of enlightenment plastered across your faces. But! I’m not done yet. Today I’m going to continue with the avalanche of brilliance. Because I love you (and Davisson Post) just that much.
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Some love truth less than they love laurels.
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If a ghost rides my way, it stops right here or it goes under to hell.
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I’d be glad if scientists would explain why the evening in autumn always recalls the lost Kingdom of the Little.
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Hatred is a force pressing out the empty places of the heart & making simple people crafty.
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Sharp & jarring & without premonition are the surprises of youth.
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If a horse tramps peacefully, the land is certainly clear of any evil thing.
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I had ridden out of youth’s golden country & lost one of the most splendid illusions of that enchanted land.
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After sunset, we are under the world yet, with only yellow haze shining through the door of the sky.
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The crooked elves toil with their backs against the golden moon.
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Aid is to be had from the great earth when one’s heart is very deeply troubled.
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Twilight is the acre of ghosts.