Each day used to be individually felt by me in its reference to the foreign post days; in its distance from, or propinquity to, the next Sunday. I had my Wednesday feelings, my Saturday nights' sensations.
Sentimentally I am disposed to harmony; but organically I am incapable of a tune.
Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
Cultivate simplicity or rather should I say banish elaborateness, for simplicity springs spontaneous from the heart.
Things in books' clothing.
Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart, Just as the whim bites. For my part, I do not care a farthing candle For either of them, nor for Handel.