New Year's Day is every man's birthday.

The teller of a mirthful tale has latitude allowed him. We are content with less than absolute truth.

When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love.

By myself walking, To myself talking.

We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been, and must wait upon the tedious shores of Lethe millions of ages before we have existence, and a name.

Shakespeare is one of the last books one should like to give up, perhaps the one just before the Dying Service in a large Prayer book.

I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man.