How Gracious Those Dews Of

Ideas Came With Explosive Immediacy, Like An Instant Birth. Human Thought Is Like A Monstrous Pendulum; It Keeps Swinging From One Extreme To The Other.

A Mighty Good Sausage Stuffer Was Spoiled When The Man Became A Poet.

Books Do Actually Consume Air And Exhale Perfumes.

There Is A Glorious Candor In An Honest Quart Of Wine, A Certain Inspitation Which I Cannot Well Define.

Here We Have A Baby. It Is Composed Of A Bald Head And A Pair Of Lungs.