And That Dismal Cry Rose Slowly And

The Essence Of All Beauty, I Call Love, The Attribute, The Evidence, And End, The Consummation To The Inward Sense Of Beauty Apprehended From Without, I Still Call Love.

Books Succeed; And Lives Fail.

Deep Violets, You Liken To The Kindest Eyes That Look On You, Without A Thought Disloyal.

Or From Browning Some "pomegranate," Which If Cut Deep Down The Middle Shows A Heart Within Blood-tinctured, Of A Veined Humanity.

The Charm, One Might Say The Genius, Of Memory Is That It Is Choosy, Chancy And Temperamental; It Rejects The Edifying Cathedral And Indelibly Photographs The Small Boy Outside, Chewing A Hunk Of Melon In The Dust.