Rapture's Self Is Three Parts Sorrow.

Art Is Like Politics. Any Theory Carried Too Far Ends In Sterility, And Freshness Is Only Gained By Following Some Other Line.

My! Ain't Men Blinder'n Moles?

Happiness, To Some, Is Elation; To Others It Is Mere Stagnation.

How Much More Beautiful Is The Moon, Slanting Down The Gauffered Branches Of A Plum-tree; The Moon Wavering Across A Bed Of Tulips; The Moon, Still, Upon Your Face. You Shine, Beloved, You And The Moon. But Which Is The Reflection?

Life Is A Stream On Which We Strew Petal By Petal The Flower Of Our Heart.