The Wise
(Minstrel or Sage,) out of their books are clay;
But in their books, as from read more

The Wise
(Minstrel or Sage,) out of their books are clay;
But in their books, as from their graves they rise.
Angels--that, side by side, upon our way,
Walk with and warn us!

Don't ask me who's influenced me. A lion is made up of the lambs he's digested, and I've been reading read more

Don't ask me who's influenced me. A lion is made up of the lambs he's digested, and I've been reading all my life.

Books are the legacies that a great genius leaves to mankind,
which are delivered down from generation to generation, read more

Books are the legacies that a great genius leaves to mankind,
which are delivered down from generation to generation, as
presents to the posterity of those who are yet unborn.

Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.

Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.

My books are water; those of the great geniuses are wine--everybody drinks water.

My books are water; those of the great geniuses are wine--everybody drinks water.

A book is a gift you can open again and again.

A book is a gift you can open again and again.

Books, books, books!
I had found the secret of a garret room
Piled high with cases in read more

Books, books, books!
I had found the secret of a garret room
Piled high with cases in my father's name;
Piled high, packed large,--where, creeping in and out
Among the giant fossils of my past,
Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there
At this or that box, pulling through the gap,
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy,
The first book first. And how I felt it beat
Under my pillow, in the morning's dark,
An hour before the sun would let me read!
My books!
At last, because the time was ripe,
I chanced upon the poets.

We call some books immortal! Do they live?
If so, believe me, Time hath made them pure.
read more

We call some books immortal! Do they live?
If so, believe me, Time hath made them pure.
In Books, the veriest wicked rest in peace.

A book might be written on the injustice of the just.

A book might be written on the injustice of the just.