Reading makes immigrants of us all. It takes us away from home, but, most important, it finds homes for us everywhere. - John Keats

I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the ground, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours