A Witty Woman Is A Treasure; A

Much Benevolence Of The Passive Order May Be Traced To A Disinclination To Inflict Pain Upon Oneself.

She Poured A Little Social Sewage Into His Ears.

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

Could I Find A Place To Be Alone With Heaven, I Would Speak My Heart Out Heaven Is My Need.

The Well Of True Wit Is Truth Itself.