She poured a little social sewage into his ears. |
She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, / Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won! |
Speech is the small change of silence. |
Sweet as Eden is the air, / And Eden-sweet the ray. |
That rarest gift to Beauty, Common Sense! |
The man of science is nothing if not a poet gone wrong. |
The man or country that fights priestcraft and priests is to my mind striking deeper for freedom than can be struck anywhere |
The most dire disaster in love is the death of imagination. |
The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures. |
The well of true wit is truth itself |
The well of true wit is truth itself |
There is nothing the body suffers the soul may not profit by. |
Under yonder beech-tree single on the greensward, / Couched with her arms behind her golden head, / Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, / Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. |
Who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is answered. |