O Liberty...! Is It Well To Leave

The Young Girl In My Story Is To Be As Sensitive To Praise As A Prism Is To Light. Whenever Anybody Praises Her She Breaks Into Colors.

Those Forms We Fancy Shadows, Those Strange Lights That Flash On Dank Morasses, The Quick Wind That Smites Us By The Roadside—are The Night's Innumerable Children. Unconfined By Shroud Or Coffin, Disembodied Souls, Uneasy Spirits, Steal Into The Air From Festering Graveyards When The Curfew Tolls At The Day's Death... And Wheresoever Murders Have Been Done, In Stately Palaces Or Lonesome Woods, Where'er A Soul Has Sold Itself And Lost Its High Inheritance, There, Hovering, Broods Some Sad, Invisible, Accurséd Ghost!

My Father Invested His Money So Securely In The Banking Business That He Was Never Able To Get Any Of It Out Again.

How Fugitive And Brief Is Mortal Life Between The Budding And The Falling Leaf.

We Knew It Would Rain, For The Poplars Showed The White Of Their Leaves, The Amber Grain Shrunk In The Wind,-and The Lightning Now Is Tangled In Tremulous Skeins Of Rain.