I Argue Thee That Love Is Life.

For Love Is Immortality.

Drunkards Of Summer Are Quite As Frequent As Drunkards Of Wine.

She Died--this Was The Way She Died; And When Her Breath Was Done, Took Up Her Simple Wardrobe And Started For The Sun. Her Little Figure At The Gate The Angels Must Have Spied, Since I Could Never Find Her Upon The Mortal Side.

Love Can Do All But Raise The Dead.

We Meet No Stranger, But Ourself.