Apology Is Only Egotism Wrong Side Out.

Me Wretched! Let Me Curr To Quercine Shades! Effund Your Albid Hausts, Lactiferous Maids! O, Might I Vole To Some Umbrageous Clump,-- Depart,--be Off,--excede,--evade,--erump!

Our Brains Are Seventy-year Clocks. The Angel Of Life Winds Them Up Once For All, Then Closes The Case, And Gives The Key Into The Hand Of The Angel Of The Resurrection.

It Is The Province Of Knowledge To Speak, And It Is The Privilege Of Wisdom To Listen.

Chicago Sounds Rough To The Maker Of Verse. One Comfort We Have - Cincinnati Sounds Worse.

Love Is The Master-key That Opens The Gates Of Happiness, Of Hatred, Of Jealousy, And, Most Easily Of All, The Gate Of Fear.