Nature Never Quite Goes Along With Us.

Love Is But The Discovery Of Ourselves In Others, And The Delight In The Recognition.

Style, After All, Rather Than Thought, Is The Immortal Thing In Literature.

A Bottomless Pit Of Violence, A Tower Of Babel Where All Are Speakers And No Hearers.

We Twain Have Met Like The Ships Upon The Sea, Who Behold An Hour's Converse, So Short, So Sweet: One Little Hour! And Then, Away They Speed On Lonely Paths, Through Mist, And Cloud, And Foam, To Meet No More.

In My Garden, Care Stops At The Gate And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.