All Heaven And Earth Are Still, Though

Who Falls From All He Knows Of Bliss, Cares Little Into What Abyss.

Earth! Render Back From Out Thy Breast A Remnant Of Our Spartan Dead! Of The Three Hundred Grant But Three, To Make A New Thermopylæ!

Go Let Thy Less Than Woman's Hand Assume The Distaff Not The Brand.

For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction.

I Suppose We Shall Soon Travel By Air-vessels; Make Air Instead Of Sea Voyages; And At Length Find Our Way To The Moon, In Spite Of The Want Of Atmosphere.