One's homesickness for Heaven finds at least an inn there and it's an inn on the right road.

But the summits of poetry are mysteries they are shiftingly veiled, and those who catch the glimpses see different aspects of the transcendental but they have seen something, and they come down with the glory lingering on them.

What do we look for as reward? Some little sounds, and scents, and scenes A small hand darting strawberry-ward A woman's aprons full of greens. The sense that we have brought to birth Out of the cold and heavy soil, The blessed fruits and flowers of earth Is large reward for our toil.

All in November's soaking mist We stand and prune the naked tree, While all our love and interest Seem quenched in the blue-nosed misery.

Poor comfort all comfort: once what the mouse had spared Was enough, was delight, there where the heart was at home

And I used to assemble the family to hear because I thought that they were so good that even from the point of view of enjoyment people shouldn't miss them, and I got every word of his that I could, and I could see by hard argument there was only the one way for it.