One's Eyes Are What One Is, One's

He Was Afflicted By The Thought That Where Beauty Was, Nothing Ever Ran Quite Straight, Which No Doubt, Was Why So Many People Looked On It As Immoral.

The French Cook; We Open Tins.

Summer — Summer — Summer! The Soundless Footsteps On The Grass!

It's Not Life That Counts But The Fortitude You Bring Into It.

Come! Let Us Lay A Lance In Rest, And Tilt At Windmills Under A Wild Sky! For Who Would Live So Petty And Unblest That Dare Not Tilt At Something Ere He Die; Rather Than, Screened By Safe Majority, Preserve His Little Life To Little End, And Never Raise A Rebel Cry!