Man has his will, but woman has her way.

Our brains are seventy-year clocks. The Angel of Life winds them up once for all, then closes the case, and gives the key into the hand of the Angel of the Resurrection.

There is no friend like an old friend who has shared our morning days, no greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise.

A goose flies by a chart which the Royal Geographical Society could not mend.

The books we read should be chosen with great care, that they may be, as an Egyptian king wrote over his library,'The medicines of the soul.

Rough work, iconoclasm, but the only way to get at truth.

Chicago sounds rough to the maker of verse. One comfort we have - Cincinnati sounds worse.