I Confess That I Do Not See

Ireland Is The Old Sow That Eats Her Farrow.

A Dim Antagonism Gathered Force Within Him And Darkened His Mind As A Cloud Against Her Disloyalty: And When It Passed, Cloudlike, Leaving His Mind Serene And Dutiful Towards Her Again, He Was Made Aware Dimly And Without Regret Of A First Noiseless Sundering Of Their Lives.

I Came In At Half Past Eleven. Since Then I Have Been Sitting In An Easy Chair Like A Fool. I Could Do Nothing. I Hear Nothing But Your Voice. I Am Like A Fool Hearing You Call Me 'dear.' I Offended Two Men Today By Leaving Them Coolly. I Wanted To Hear Your Voice, Not Theirs. When I Am With You I Leave Aside My Contemptuous, Suspicious Nature. I Wish I Felt Your Head On My Shoulder.

Love Loves To Love Love.

Beauty, The Splendour Of Truth, Is A Gracious Presence When The Imagination Contemplates Intensely The Truth Of Its Own Being Or The Visible World, And The Spirit Which Proceeds Out Of Truth And Beauty Is The Holy Spirit Of Joy. These Are Realities And These Alone Give And Sustain Life.