Art, At Any Rate In A Novel,

To The Sun Rome Owes Its Underlying Glow, And Its Air Called Golden - To Me, More The Yellow Of White Wine; Like Wine It Raises Agreeability To Poetry.

No Object Is Mysterious. The Mystery Is Your Eye.

Autumn Arrives In The Early Morning.

We Have Really No Absent Friends.

If You Look At Life One Way, There Is Always Cause For Alarm.