the shell must break before the bird can fly.
...and our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.
But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver.
Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.
A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.