Tact, If It Be Genuine,

The Writer Who Possesses The Creative Gift Owns Something Of Which He Is Not Always Master - Something That, At Times, Strangely Wills And Works For Itself.

Give Him Enough Rope And He Will Hang Himself.

All My Heart Is Yours, Sir: It Belongs To You; And With You It Would Remain, Were Fate To Exile The Rest Of Me From Your Presence Forever.

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.

Self Abandoned, Relaxed And Effortless, I Seemed To Have Laid Me Down In The Dried-up Bed Of A Great River; I Heard A Flood Loosened In Remote Mountains, I Felt The Torrent Come; To Rise I Had No Will, To Flee I Had No Strength.