Though The Mills Of God Grind Slowly,

He Had Mittens, Minjekahwun, Magic Mittens Made Of Deer-skin; When Upon His Hands He Wore Them, He Could Smite The Rocks Asunder, He Could Grind Them Into Powder.

My Book And Heart Shall Never Part.

Truly, This World Can Go On Without Us, If We Would But Think So.

The Day Is Dark And Cold And Dreary; It Rains, And The Wind Is Never Weary.

Like A French Poem Is Life; Being Only Perfect In Structure When With The Masculine Rhymes Mingled The Feminine Are.