Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, Festively she puts forth in trim array.

In anything fit to be called by the name of reading, the process itself should be absorbing and voluptuous; we should gloat over a book, be rapt clean out of o…

How pure the joy, when first my hands unfold The small, rare volume, black with tarnished gold!

There is more treasure in books than in all the pirates' loot on Treasure Island and at the bottom of the Spanish Main... and best of all, you can enjoy these …