One's Religion Is Whatever He Is Most

When Ladies Used To Come To Me In Dreams, I Said, 'pretty Mother, Pretty Mother.' But When At Last She Really Came, I Shot Her.

Oh, You Mysterious Girls, When You Are Fifty-two We Shall Find You Out; You Must Come Into The Open Then. If The Mouth Has Fallen Sourly Yours The Blame: All The Meanness Your Youth Concealed Have Been Gathering In Your Face. But The Pretty Thoughts And Sweet Ways And Dear, Forgotten Kindnesses Linger There Also, To Bloom In Your Twilight Like Evening Primroses.

Our Life Is A Book To Which We Add Daily, Until Suddenly We Are Finished, And Then The Manuscript Is Burned.

You [scots] Come Of A Race Of Men The Very Wind Of Whose Name Has Swept To The Ultimate Seas.

Take Care, Lest An Adventure Is Now Offered You, Which, If Accepted, Will Plunge You In Deepest Woe.