Such Power There Is In Clear-eyed Self-restraint.

Compromise Makes A Good Umbrella, But A Poor Roof.

Reading Chaucer Is Like Brushing Through The Dewy Grass At Sunrise.

Metaphor Is No Argument, Though It Be Sometimes The Gunpowder To Drive One Home, And Imbed It In The Memory.

Some Kind Of Pace May Be Got Out Of The Eeriest Jade By The Near Prospect Of Oats; But The Thoroughbred Has The Spur In His Blood.

The Thing We Long For, That We Are For One Transcendent Moment.