Whatever My Fate, I'll Go To It

God Help Thee, Old Man, Thy Thoughts Have Created A Creature In Thee; And He Whose Intense Thinking Thus Makes Him A Prometheus; A Vulture Feeds Upon That Heart For Ever; That Vulture The Very Creature He Creates.

Ladies Are Like Creeds; If You Cannot Speak Well Of Them, Say Nothing.

Where Lies The Final Harbor, Whence We Unmoor No More?

The Phantom-host Has Faded Quite, Splendor And Terror Gone-- Portent Or Promise--and Gives Way To Pale, Meek Dawn.

Only The Man Who Says No Is Free