I Expect Woman Will Be The Last

It Is The Devil's Masterstroke To Get Us To Accuse Him

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

A Witty Woman Is A Treasure; A Witty Beauty Is A Power.

She Whom I Love Is Hard To Catch And Conquer, Hard, But O The Glory Of The Winning Were She Won!

Earth Knows No Desolation. She Smells Regeneration In The Moist Breath Of Decay.