Youth Had Been A Habit Of Hers

There Rise Her Timeless Capitals Of Empires Daily Born, Whose Plinths Are Laid At Midnight And Whose Streets Are Packed At Morn; And Here Come Tired Youths And Maids That Feign To Love Or Sin In Tones Like Rusty Razor Blades To Tunes Like Smitten Tin.

Good Lord! Who Can Account For The Fathomless Folly Of The Public?

I Am The Cat Who Walks By Himself, And All Places Are Alike To Me.

For The Female Of The Species Is More Deadly Than The Male.

When Man Has Come To The Turnstiles Of Night, All The Creeds In The World Seem To Him Wonderfully Alike And Colorless.