With stammering lips and insufficient sound I strive and struggle to deliver right the music of my nature.

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental; it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.

Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!

There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!

My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.

And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?