If You Wish To Preserve Your Secret,

Every Man's Road In Life Is Marked By The Grave Of His Personal Likings.

The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother, Night.

A Man's Real Possession Is His Memory. In Nothing Else Is He Rich, In Nothing Else Is He Poor.

We Twain Have Met Like The Ships Upon The Sea, Who Behold An Hour's Converse, So Short, So Sweet: One Little Hour! And Then, Away They Speed On Lonely Paths, Through Mist, And Cloud, And Foam, To Meet No More.

Pleasure Has No Logic; It Never Treads In Its Own Footsteps.