Depend Upon It, A Man Never Experiences

Gradually The Sunken Land Begins To Rise Again, And Falls Perhaps Again, And Rises Again After That, More And More Gently Each Time, Till As It Were The Panting Earth, Worn Out With The Fierce Passions Of Her Fiery Youth, Has Sobbed Herself To Sleep Once More, And This New World Of Man Is Made.

Depend Upon It, A Man Never Experiences Such Pleasure Or Grief After Fourteen Years As He Does Before, Unless In Some Cases, In His First Lovemaking, When The Sensation Is New To Him

Beauty Is God's Handwriting — A Wayside Sacrament; Welcome It In Every Fair Face, Every Fair Sky, Every Fair Flower, And Thank For It Him.

Tis The Hard Grey Weather Breeds Hard English Men.

So Fleet The Works Of Men, Back To Their Earth Again;ancient And Holy Things Fade Like A Dream.