And The Men That Were Boys When

It Seems To Be Saying Perpetually; 'i Am The End Of The Nineteenth Century; I Am Glad They Built Me Of Iron; Let Me Rust.' ... It Is Like A Passing Fool In A Crowd Of The University, A Buffoon In The Hall; For All The Things In Paris Has Made, It Alone Has Neither Wits Nor Soul.

The Tender Evenlode That Makes Her Meadows Hush To Hear The Sound Of Waters Mingling In The Brakes, And Binds My Heart To English Ground. A Lovely River, All Alone, She Lingers In The Hills And Holds A Hundred Little Towns Of Stone, Forgotten In The Western Wolds.

When I Am Dead, I Hope It May Be Said: His Sins Were Scarlet, But His Books Were Read.

The Sea Drives Truth Into A Man Like Salt.

Statistics Are The Triumph Of The Quantitative Method, And The Quantitative Method Is The Victory Of Sterility And Death.