Never To Talk To Ones Self Is

The Simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, Both By Precept And Example, Shows / That Prose Is Verse, And Verse Is Merely Prose.

Frienship Is Eros...without Wings

Just As Old Age Is Creeping On Space, And Clouds Come O'er The Sunset Of Our Day, They Kindly Leave Us, Though Not Quite Alone, But In Good Company--the Gout Or Stone.

I Love The Language, It Sounds As If It Should Be Writ On Satin With Syllables Which Breathe Of The Sweet South

What Should I Have Known Or Written Had I Been A Quiet, Mercantile Politician Or A Lord In Waiting? A Man Must Travel, And Turmoil, Or There Is No Existence.