There Will Be Time To Murder And

The Yellow Fog That Rubs Its Back Upon The Window-panes The Yellow Smoke That Rubs Its Muzzle On The Window-panes Licked Its Tongue Into The Corners Of The Evening Lingered Upon The Pools That Stand In Drains Let Fall Upon Its Back The Soot That Falls From Chimneys Slipped By The Terrace, Made A Sudden Leap And Seeing That It Was A Soft October Night Curled Once About The House, And Fell Asleep

It Is Impossible To Design A System So Perfect That No One Needs To Be Good.

A Crowd Flowed Over London Bridge, So Many, I Had Not Thought Death Had Undone So Many.

You Are The Music While The Music Lasts.

We Know Too Much, And Are Convinced Of Too Little. Our Literature Is A Substitute For Religion, And So Is Our Religion.