Men Praise Poverty, As The African Worships

My Friend Is Not Perfect-no More Than I Am-and So We Suit Each Other Admirable.

Nature Never Quite Goes Along With Us. She Is Somber At Weddings, Sunny At Funerals, And She Frowns On Ninety-nine Out Of A Hundred Picnics.

We Are Never Happy; We Can Only Remember That We Were So Once.

My Heart Like Moon-charmed Waters, All Unrest.

A Bottomless Pit Of Violence, A Tower Of Babel Where All Are Speakers And No Hearers.