Style, After All, Rather Than Thought, Is

Nature Never Quite Goes Along With Us. She Is Somber At Weddings, Sunny At Funerals, And She Frowns On Ninety-nine Out Of A Hundred Picnics.

A Single Soul Is Richer Than All The Worlds.

We Have Two Lives; The Soul Of Man Is Like The Rolling World, One Half In Day, The Other Dipt In Night; The One Has Music And The Flying Cloud, The Other, Silence And The Wakeful Stars.

We Bury Love; Forgetfulness Grows Over It Like Grass: That Is A Thing To Weep For, Not The Dead.

There Is No Ghost So Difficult To Lay As The Ghost Of An Injury.