Quote – What is not worth reading more than once

What is not worth reading more than once is not worth reading at all.

C. J. Weber

Quote – The habit and power of reading with reflection

The habit and power of reading with reflection, comprehension, and memory all alert and awake, does not come at once to the natural [person] any more than many other sovereign virtues.

— John Morley

Related References

Poetry – AUTUMN CHANT

Now the autumn shudders
In the rose’s root.
Far and wide the ladders
Lean among the fruit.

Now the autumn clambers
Up the trellised frame,
And the rose remembers
The dust from which it came.

Brighter than the blossom
On the rose’s bough
Sits the wizened, orange,
Bitter berry now;

Beauty never slumbers;
All is in her name;
But the rose remembers

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Related References

Poetry- Feelings About Words

Some words clink
As ice in a drink.
Some move with grace
A dance, a lace.
Some sound thin:
Wail, scream and pin.
Some words are squat:
A mug, a pot.

— Mary O’Neill

Poetry – Dusk I Love

dusk I love who know the morning’s light
the night’s darkness, the black and white
of yes and no and all false and true

I have lived with definite so long
with wrong and right, with weak and strong
with how much undefined dusk by you

for I have seen the between hours
when towers grew soft as flowers
and cold stones were stemmed in warmest hue

and I have watched a kind gentle grace
take place behind the coarser face
unloose the many masks old and new

I too felt the purple air’s dissent
from meant purpose and clear intent
nothing certain but a changing view

then let me have time’s dusk perspective
to give the life men think they live
an outer shape and an inner clue

— Elizabeth Bartlett

Other Poems

The Fox

A fox looked at his shadow at sunrise and said, “I will have a camel for lunch today.” And all morning he went about looking for camels. But at noon he saw his shadow again—and he said, “A mouse will do.”

— Khalil Gibran

THE LOST BALL

Playing one day at the seaside, I was topping my balls on the tees,
And the sand and the bent were littered with fragments of double D’s;
Piffle supreme I was playing, and varying “slice” with “pull,”
But I hit one ball a wallop like a kick of a Spanish bull.

It whistled its way towards Heaven in a rocket’s magic flight;
It canceled the crimson sunset like the shroud of a moonless night;
It knocked the paint off a rainbow and scattered the stars like bees;
And sped thro’ the stellar spaces as tho’ it would never cease.

It looped the loop like Pégoud in parabolic curves;
It was salve to my wounded feelings and balm to my ruffled nerves;
It clove my opponent’s gizzard like the stab of a Lascar’s knife;
And produced the hardest swearing I have ever heard in my life.

I have sought in the bent and the bushes that one magnificent ball;
It may be Antartic crystals were broken by its fall;
It may be that Death as Caddy may light on the spot it fell;
I may have holed out in Heaven or find myself trapped in Hell.

— T. M. Kettle