Wit Is The Clash And Reconcilement Of

Those Who Have Lost An Infant Are Never, As It Were, Without An Infant Child. Their Other Children Grow Up To Manhood And Womanhood, And Suffer All The Changes Of Mortality; But This One Alone Is Rendered An Immortal Child; For Death Has Arrested It With His Kindly Harshness, And Blessed It Into An Eternal Image Of Youth And Innocence.

Did You Ever Observe That Immoderate Laughter Always Ends In A Sigh?

The Loveliest Hair Is Nothing, If The Wearer Is Incapable Of A Grace.

O Scaly, Slippery, Wet, Swift, Staring Wights, What Is 't Ye Do? What Life Lead? Eh, Dull Goggles? How Do Ye Vary Your Vile Days And Nights? How Pass Your Sundays? Are Ye Still But Joggles In Ceaseless Wash? Still Nought But Gapes And Bites, And Drinks, And Stares, Diversified With Boggles.

There Are Two Worlds: The World That We Can Measure With Line And Rule, And The World We Feel With Our Hearts And Imaginations.