What A Haunting, Inescapable Riddle Life Was.

Oh, Pity The Poor Glutton Whose Troubles All Begin In Struggling On And On To Turn What's Out Into What's In.

What Is The World, O Soldiers? It Is I, I, This Incessant Snow, This Northern Sky.

Lear, Macbeth. Mercutio – They Live On Their Own As It Were. The Newspapers Are Full Of Them, If We Were Only The Shakespeares To See It. Have You Ever Been In A Police Court? Have You Ever Watched Tradesmen Behind Their Counters? My Soul, The Secrets Walking In The Streets! You Jostle Them At Every Corner. There's A Polonius In Every First-class Railway Carriage, And As Many Juliets As There Are Boarding-schools. ... How Inexhaustibly Rich Everything Is, If You Only Stick To Life.

What Lovely Things Thy Hand Hath Made.

He Got Out Of Bed And Peeped Through The Blinds. To The East And Opposite To Him Gardens And An Apple-orchard Lay, And There In Strange Liquid Tranquility Hung The Morning Star, And Rose, Rilling Into The Dusk Of Night The First Grey Of Dawn. The Street Beneath Its Autumn Leaves Was Vacant, Charmed, Deserted.