Souls Live On In Perpetual Echoes.

Wit Is A Form Of Force That Leaves The Limbs At Rest.

Young Love-making--that Gossamer Web! Even The Points It Clings To--the Things Whence Its Subtle Interlacings Are Swung--are Scarcely Perceptible: Momentary Touches Of Finger-tips, Meetings Of Rays From Blue And Dark Orbs, Unfinished Phrases, Lightest Changes Of Cheek And Lip, Faintest Tremors. The Web Itself Is Made Of Spontaneous Beliefs And Indefinable Joys, Yearnings Of One Life Towards Another, Visions Of Completeness, Indefinite Trust.

"abroad," That Large Home Of Ruined Reputations.

Family Likeness Has Often A Deep Sadness In It.

It Must Be Sad To Outlive Aught We Love.