When I was quite a boy I had a spasm of religion which lasted six weeks... But I never since have swallowed the Christian fable.

I know him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.

A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly, and eat our pot of honey on the grave.

Sentimentalists are they who seek to enjoy without incurring the Immense Debtorship for a thing done.

Speech is the small change of silence.

Lowly, with a broken neck, The crocus lays her cheek to mire.

Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.