Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

Pain Dies Quickly, And Lets Her Weary Prisoners Go; The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest Reign.

The Journalist Should Be On His Guard Against Publishing What Is False In Taste Or Exceptionable In Morals.

The Breath Of Springtime At This Twilight Hour Comes Through The Gathering Glooms, And Bears The Stolen Sweets Of Many A Flower Into My Silent Rooms.

And We Wept That One So Lovely Should Have A Life So Brief.

Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.