Fortune Is The Rod Of The Weak,

The Story Of Any One Man's Real Experience Finds Its Startling Parallel In That Of Every One Of Us.

The Time Is Ripe, And Rotten-ripe, For Change.

Reading Chaucer Is Like Brushing Through The Dewy Grass At Sunrise.

Some Day The Soft Ideal That We Wooed Confronts Us Fiercely, Foe-beset, Pursued, And Cries Reproachful: Was It Then My Praise, And Not Myself Was Loved? Prove Now Thy Truth; I Claim Of Thee The Promise Of Thy Youth.

The Traitor To Humanity Is The Traitor Most Accurst.