The Sight Of Blood To Crowds Begets

A Man Of Eighty Has Outlived Probably Three New Schools Of Painting, Two Of Architecture And Poetry And A Hundred In Dress.

Sleep Hath Its Own World, And The Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude, And Nothing More Diverts It From Its Sad Visions Of The Other World Than Calling It At Moments Back To This. The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

Be Warm, Be Pure, Be Amorous, But Be Chaste.

They Truly Mourn, That Mourn Without A Witness.