Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.

Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.

Good work and joyous play go hand in hand. When play stops, old age begins. Play keeps you from taking life too seriously.

Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.

There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.