There Is A Mercy Which

A Patronizing Disposition Always Has Its Meaner Side.

All Meanings, We Know, Depend On The Key Of Interpretation.

I Love Words; They Are The Quoits, The Bows, The Staves That Furnish The Gymnasium Of The Mind.

Hatred Is Like Fire, It Makes Even Light Rubbish Deadly.

How Is It That The Poets Have Said So Many Fine Things About Our First Love, So Few About Our Later Love? Are Their First Poems Their Best? Or Are Not Those The Best Which Come From Their Fuller Thought, Their Larger Experience, Their Deeper-rooted Affections? The Boy's Flute-like Voice Has Its Own Spring Charm; But The Man Should Yield A Richer, Deeper Music.