A harmless life, she called a virtuous life, A quiet life, which was not life at all . . . - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

It is rather when
We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book’s profound,
Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth — ’Tis then we get the right good from a book.

Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown! No mortal grief deserves that crown. O supreme Love, chief misery, The sharp regalia are for Thee Whose days eternally go on!' For us, — whatever's undergone, Thou knowest, willest what is done, Grief may be joy misunderstood; Only the Good discerns the good. I trust Thee while my days go on.

And trade is art, and art's philosophy,
In Paris.