There Is A Budding Morrow

The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have Imagined For The Mighty Dead.

Failure Is, In A Sense, The Highway To Success.

And Shade The Violets, That They May Bind The Moss In Leafy Nets.

How I Like Claret!...it Fills One's Mouth With A Gushing Freshness, Then Goes Down To Cool And Feverless; Then, You Do Not Feel It Quarrelling With One's Liver. No; 'tis Rather A Peace-maker, And Lies As Quiet As It Did In The Grape. Then It Is As Fragrant As The Queen Bee, And The More Ethereal Part Mounts Into The Brain, Not Assaulting The Cerebral Apartments, Like A Bully Looking For His Trull, And Hurrying From Door To Door, Bouncing Against The Wainscott, But Rather Walks Like Aladdin About His Enchanted Palace, So Gently That You Do Not Feel His Step.

Call The World If You Please "the Vale Of Soul-making." Then You Will Find Out The Use Of The World.