Love Has Earth To Which She Clings.

New Is A Word For Fools In Towns Who Think Style Upon Style In Dress And Thought At Last Must Get Somewhere.

The Difference Between A Man And His Valet: They Both Smoke The Same Cigars, But Only One Pays For Them.

My Sorrow, When She's Here With Me, Thinks These Dark Days Of Autumn Rain Are Beautiful As Days Can Be; She Loves The Bare, The Withered Tree; She Walks The Sodden Pasture Lane.

It Looked As If A Night Of Dark Intent Was Coming, And Not Only A Night, An Age. Someone Had Better Be Prepared For Rage.

What Are We? Young Or New? We Must Be Something.