New York Is A Sucked Orange.

The Good Writer Seems To Be Writing About Himself, But Has His Eye Always On That Thread Of The Universe Which Runs Through Himself And All Things.

O Friend, My Bosom Said, Through Thee Alone The Sky Is Arched. Through Thee The Rose Is Red; All Things Through Thee Take Nobler Form, And Look Beyond The Earth, The Mill-round Of Our Fate Appears A Sun-path In Thy Worth. Me Too Thy Nobleness Has Taught To Master My Despair; The Fountains Of My Hidden Life Are Through Thy Friendship Fair.

Old & New Put Their Stamp To Everything In Nature. The Snowflake That Is Now Falling Is Marked By Both. The Present Moment Gives The Motion & The Color Of The Flake: Antiquity, Its Form & Properties. All Things Wear A Luster Which Is The Gift Of The Present & A Tarnish Of Time.

Taking To Pieces Is The Trade Of Those Who Cannot Construct.

Fine Manners Need The Support Of Fine Manners In Others.