There is nothing so entirely desirable in all the world as a few hours oblivion.

Words? I tell you not to write me letters; I command you. Is it not enough to want you so in vain, but you send me what evokes you here before me -- this paper, all along whose lines your hand has lain?

Love's the little leaven that works the whole world glad.

I meant to write a song of battle, for storied deeds of war inspire; I seemed to hear the cannon thunder, I seemed to see the smoke and fire. But oh, the pathos of the ending when brave men conquered in the fight, knelt, kissing yielded blood-stained colors!--my eyes are blurred, I cannot write.

I shall pass Dawn on her way to earth, as I seek for a path through space.

I bought the sweetness with this pain.

There is nothing so entirely desirable in all the world as a few hours oblivion.