If An Offense Come Out Of The

Everybody Must Be Managed. Queens Must Be Managed. Kings Must Be Managed, For Men Want Managing Almost As Much As Women, And That's Saying A Good Deal.

It Was Then That The Ecstasy And The Dream Began, In Which Emotion Was The Matter Of The Universe, And Matter But An Adventitious Intrusion Likely To Hinder You From Spinning Where You Wanted To Spin.

Christmas Eve, And Twelve Of The Clock. "now They Are All On Their Knees," An Elder Said As We Sat In A Flock By The Embers In Hearth-side Ease. We Pictured The Meek Mild Creatures Where They Dwelt In Their Strawy Pen, Nor Did It Occur To One Of Us There To Doubt They Were Kneeling Then. So Fair A Fancy Few Would Weave In These Years! Yet, I Feel If Someone Said On Christmas Eve, "come; See The Oxen Kneel, In The Lonely Barton By Yonder Coomb Our Childhood Used To Know," I Should Go With Him In The Gloom, Hoping It Might Be So.

The Business Of The Poet And The Novelist Is To Show The Sorriness Underlying The Grandest Things And The Grandeur Underlying The Sorriest Things.

A Novel Is An Impression, Not An Argument; And There The Matter Must Rest.