Whatever You May Say, The Body Depends

I Shall Laugh My Bitter Laugh.

I Am Very Fond Of The Modest Manner Of Life Of Those Solitary Owners Of Remote Villages, Who In Little Russia Are Commonly Called "old-fashioned," Who Are Like Tumbledown Picturesque Little Houses, Delightful In Their Simplicity And Complete Unlikeness To The New Smooth Buildings Whose Walls Have Not Yet Been Discolored By The Rain, Whose Roofs Are Not Yet Covered With Green Lichen, And Whose Porch Does Not Display Its Bricks Through The Peeling Stucco.

Two Turtle Doves Will Show Thee Where My Cold Ashes Lie And Sadly Murmuring Tell Thee How In Tears I Did Die

Whatever You May Say, The Body Depends On The Soul.

Don't Blame The Mirror If Your Face Is Faulty.