The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away.

Oh! Might I Kiss Those Eyes Of Fire, A Million Scarce Would Quench Desire; Still Would I Steep My Lips In Bliss, And Dwell An Age On Every Kiss; Nor Then My Soul Should Sated Be, Still Would I Kiss And Cling To Thee: Nought Should My Kiss From Thine Dissever, Still Would We Kiss And Kiss For Ever; E'en Though The Numbers Did Exceed The Yellow Harvest's Countless Seed; To Part Would Be A Vain Endeavour: Could I Desist? -ah! Never-never.

A Little Still She Strove, And Much Repented, And Whispering “i Will Ne'er Consent”—consented.

One Of The Pleasures Of Reading Old Letters Is The Knowledge That They Need No Answer.

There Is Something Pagan In Me That I Cannot Shake Off. In Short, I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.