The Lusts And Greeds Of The Body

I Can't Forgive My Friends For Dying; I Don't Find These Vanishing Acts Of Theirs At All Amusing.

How Often My Soul Visits The National Gallery, And How Seldom

An Echo Of Music, A Face In The Street, The Wafer Of The New Moon, A Wanton Thought - Only In The Iridescence Of Things The Vagabond Soul Is Happy.

Don't Laugh At Youth For His Affectations; He Is Only Trying On One Face After Another To Find His Own.

The Mere Process Of Growing Old Together Will Make The Slightest Acquaintance Seem A Bosom Friend.