Memoirs Are The Backstairs Of History.

Memoirs Are The Backstairs Of History.

Sunrays, Leaning On Our Southern Hills And Lighting Wild Cloud-mountains That Drag The Hills Along, Oft Ends The Day Of Your Shifting Brilliant Laughter Chill As A Dull Face Frowning On A Song. Ay, But Shows The South-west A Ripple-feathered Bosom Blown To Silver While The Clouds Are Shaken And Ascend Scaling The Mid-heavens As They Stream, There Comes A Sunset Rich, Deep Like Love In Beauty Without End.

The Man Of Science Is Nothing If Not A Poet Gone Wrong.

Woman's Reason Is In The Milk Of Her Breasts.

We Know The Degree Of Refinement In People By The Matter They Laugh At And The Ring Of The Laugh.