What The Deuce Is To Do Now?

I Scorn Your Idea Of Love,' I Could Not Help Saying, As I Rose Up And Stood Before Him, Leaning My Back Against The Rock. 'i Scorn The Counterfeit Sentiment You Offer: Yes, St. John, And I Scorn You When You Offer It.

I Shall Be Thirty-one Next Birthday. My Youth Is Gone Like A Dream; And Very Little Use Have I Ever Made Of It. What Have I Done These Last Thirty Years? Precious Little.

Great Pains Were Taken To Hide Chains With Flowers

I Longed For A Power Of Vision Which Might Overpass That Limit; Which Might Reach The Busy World, Towns, Regions Full Of Life I Had Heard Of But Never Seen: That I Desired More Of Practical Experience Than I Possessed; More Of Intercourse With My Kind, Of Acquaintance With Variety Of Character, Than Was Here Within My Reach.

Rapidly, Merrily, Life's Sunny Hours Flit By, Gratefully, Cheerily Enjoy Them As They Fly!