Love Prefers Twilight To Daylight.

Me Wretched! Let Me Curr To Quercine Shades! Effund Your Albid Hausts, Lactiferous Maids! O, Might I Vole To Some Umbrageous Clump,-- Depart,--be Off,--excede,--evade,--erump!

The Sound Of A Kiss Is Not So Loud As That Of A Cannon, But Its Echo Lasts A Great Deal Longer.

Apology Is Only Egotism Wrong Side Out.

Our Brains Are Seventy-year Clocks. The Angel Of Life Winds Them Up Once For All, Then Closes The Case, And Gives The Key Into The Hand Of The Angel Of The Resurrection.

What Refuge Is There For The Victim Who Is Oppressed With The Feeling That There Are A Thousand New Books He Ought To Read, While Life Is Only Long Enough For Him To Attempt To Read A Hundred?