Death Opens Unknown Doors. It Is Most

His Face Was Filled With Broken Commandments.

I Have Seen Dawn And Sunset On Moors And Windy Hills Coming In Solemn Beauty Like Slow Old Tunes Of Spain.

It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind, Full Of Birds' Cries.

Once In A Century A Man May Be Ruined Or Made Insufferable By Praise. But Surely Once In A Minute Something Generous Dies For Want Of It.

Off Cape Horn There Are But Two Kinds Of Weather, Neither One Of Them A Pleasant Kind.