We Dance Round In A Ring And

Any Eye Is An Evil Eye That Looks In On To A Mood Apart.

Sentences Are Not Different Enough To Hold The Attention Unless They Are Dramatic. No Ingenuity Of Varying Structure Will Do. All That Can Save Them Is The Speaking Tone Of Voice Somehow Entangled In The Words And Fastened To The Page For The Ear Of The Imagination. That Is All That Can Save Poetry From Sing-song, All That Can Save Prose From Itself.

But Not Gold In Commercial Quantities, Just Enough Gold To Make The Engagement Rings And Marriage Rings Of Those Who Owned The Farm. What Gold More Innocent Could One Have Asked For?

Trust Him To Have His Bitter Politics Against His Unacquaintances The Rich Who Sleep In Houses Of Their Own, Though Mortgaged. Conservatives, They Don't Know What To Save.

If Society Fits You Comfortably Enough, You Call It Freedom.