That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have.

Next time!' In what calendar are kept the records of those next times which never come?

Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the second.

Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.

Stain my eyes as I may, on all sides all is black.

By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.