The Man Who Suspects His Own Tediousness

Day Is A Snow-white Dove Of Heaven That From The East Glad Message Brings. Night Is A Stealthy, Evil Raven, Wrapped To The Eyes In His Black Wings.

But I, In The Chilling Twilight Stand And Wait At The Portcullis, At Thy Castle Gate, Longing To See The Charmed Door Of Dreams Turn On Its Noiseless Hinges, Delicate Sleep!

Civilization Is The Lamb's Skin In Which Barbarism Masquerades.

My Father Invested His Money So Securely In The Banking Business That He Was Never Able To Get Any Of It Out Again.

True Art Selects And Paraphrases, But Seldom Gives A Verbatim Translation.