She Is Intensely Human, And Lives To

What Is The Law Of The Jungle? Strike First And Then Give Tongue.

There Rise Her Timeless Capitals Of Empires Daily Born, Whose Plinths Are Laid At Midnight And Whose Streets Are Packed At Morn; And Here Come Tired Youths And Maids That Feign To Love Or Sin In Tones Like Rusty Razor Blades To Tunes Like Smitten Tin.

If You Can Think–and Not Make Thoughts Your Aim.

All The People Like Us Are We, And Everyone Else Is They.

Small Miseries, Like Small Debts, Hit Us In So Many Places, And Meet Us At So Many Turns And Corners, That What They Want In Weight, They Make Up In Number, And Render It Less Hazardous To Stand The Fire Of One Cannon Ball, Than A Volley Composed Of Such A Shower Of Bullets.