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Whose woods these are I think I know.  His house is in the village though;     He will not see me stopping here    To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer    To stop without...

yours is the music for no instrumentyours the preposterous colour unbeheld —mine the unbought contemptuous intent till this our flesh merely shall be excelled by speaking flower                       (if I have made songs it does not greatly matter to the sun,...

WEEK ONE | MARCEL PROUST “Who cannot recall, as I can, the reading they did in the holidays, which one would conceal successively in all those hours of the day peaceful and inviolable enough to be able to afford it...

This post was originally published on our old blog in July of 2014.  Last week, Nichole and I paid a visit to the Musée des Lettres et Manuscrits. They had an amazing collection of original manuscripts, including some from notable...