Our acts our angels are, for good or ill, our fatal shadows that walk by us still.
Deeds, not words shall speak me.
The coward's weapon, poison.
Come, sing now, sing; for I know you sing well; I see you have a singing face.
O woman, perfect woman! what distraction Was meant to mankind when thou wast made a devil!
Ask how to live? Write, write, write, anything; The world's a fine believing world, write news.