War Is Cruelty, And None Can Make

Every Shot That Kills Ricochets.

The Music Throbbed In A Voice Of Singular And Delicate Power; The Air Was Resonant With Melody, Love And Pain. The Meanest Italian In The Gallery Far Up Beneath The Ceiling, The Most Exalted Of The Land In The Boxes And The Stalls, Leaned Indulgently Forward, To Be Swept By This Sweet Storm Of Song.

Man Is Born In A Day, And He Dies In A Day, And The Thing Is Easily Over; But To Have A Sick Heart For Three-fourths Of One's Lifetime Is Simply To Have Death Renewed Every Morning; And Life At That Price Is Not Worth Living.

She Belongs To A Race Of Delightful Women, Who Never Do Any Harm, Whom Everybody Calls Good, And Who Are Very Severe On Those Who Do Not Pretend To Be Good.

There Is No Refuge From Memory And Remorse In This World. The Spirits Of Our Foolish Deeds Haunt Us, With Or Without Repentance.