The Hands Are The Heart's Messengers.

At All Events There Is In Brooklyn Something That Makes Me Feel At Home.

The Deepest Feeling Always Shows Itself In Silence.

The Ocean, Under The Pulsation Of Lighthouses And Noise Of Bell Buoys, Advances As Usual, Looking As If It Were Not That Ocean In Which Dropped Things Are Bound To Sink-- In Which If They Turn And Twist, It Is Neither With Volition Nor Consciousness.

All Are / Naked, None Is Safe.

The Weak Overcomes Its/ Menace, The Strong Over-/comes Itself.