America May Have Great Poets And Novelists,

One Sees That Dead, Vacant Look Steal Over The Rarest, Finest Of Women's Faces . . . In The Very Midst, It May Be, Of Their Warmest Summer's Day; And Then One Can Guess At The Secret Of Intolerable Solitude That Lies Hid Beneath The Delicate Laces . . .

You Were Only Truly Patriotic If You Had A Laborer For A Grandfather And Were Glad Of It.

The Sun, The Earth, Love, Friends, Our Very Breath Are Parts Of The Banquet.

We Don't Often Look Into These Unpleasant Details Of Our Great Struggle. We All Prefer To Think That Every Man Who Wore The Blue Or Gray Was A Philip Sidney At Heart.

It Was Part Of Your Religion To Hate The British.