A woman's always younger than a man at equal years.
Souls are gregarious in a sense, but no soul touches another, as a general rule.
Who so loves believes the impossible.
And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.
What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed - and not for pay? Absurd - or insincere?
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me.