The Poetry Of Speech.

A Feast Not Profuse But Elegant; More Of Salt [refinement] Than Of Expense.

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me, But Let Us Part Fair Foes; I Do Believe, Though I Have Found Them Not, That There May Be Words Which Are Things, Hopes Which Will Not Deceive, And Virtues Which Are Merciful, Or Weave Snares For The Failing: I Would Also Deem O'er Others' Griefs That Some Sincerely Grieve; That Two, Or One, Are Almost What They Seem, That Goodness Is No Name, And Happiness No Dream.

Since Eve Ate The Apple, Much Depends On Dinner.

Fame Is The Thirst Of Youth.

I Can't But Say It Is An Awkward Sight To See One's Native Land Receding Through The Growing Waters; It Unmans One Quite, Especially When Life Is Rather New.