Nature: a place where birds fly around uncooked

The youth of the present day are quite monstrous. They have absolutely no respect for dyed hair.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves By each let this be heard Some do it with a bitter look Some with a flattering word The coward does it with a kiss The brave man with a sword

Crying is the refuge of plain women but the ruin of pretty ones.

George Moore leads his readers to the latrine and locks them in.

Grass is hard and lumpy and damp, and full of dreadful black insects.

Requiescat Tread lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone She is at rest. Peace, Peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life’s buried here, Heap earth upon it.