Each Lost Day Has Its Patron Saint!

Besides Writing, I Have Been Teaching Myself To 'develop' My Own Photographic Plates, And I Haven't A Stick Of Clothing Or An Exposed Finger That Isn't Stained. I Sit For Hours In A Dark-room Feeling As If I Were A Very Elderly Faust At Some Dreadful Incantation, And Come Out Of It, Blinding At The Light, Like A Bastille Prisoner. And Yet I Am Not Successful!

There Is Peace In The Swamp, Though The Quiet Is Death

One Big Vice In A Man Is Apt To Keep Out A Great Many Smaller Ones.

Nobody Shoulders A Rifle In Defense Of A Boarding House.

The Delicate Thought, That Cannot Find Expression, For Ruder Speech Too Fair, That, Like Thy Petals, Trembles In Possession, And Scatters On The Air.