The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.
History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.
In summer, the song sings itself.
All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.
THESE are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.
No opinion can be trusted; even the facts may be nothing but a printer's error.