The Thing One Reads And Likes, And

Wide Open And Unguarded Stand Our Gates, And Through Them Presses A Wild Motley Throng, Men From The Volga And The Tartar Steppes, Featureless Figures Of The Hoang-ho, Malayan, Scythian, Teuton, Kelt, And Slav. Flying The Old World's Poverty And Scorn, These Bringing With Them Unknown Gods And Rites, Ttose, Tiger Passions, Here To Stretch Their Claws In Street And Alley. What Strange Tongues Are Loud Accents Of Menace Alien To Our Air, Voices That Once The Tower Of Babel Knew! O Liberty, White Goddess! Is It Well To Leave The Gates Unguarded?

Books That Have Become Classics - Books That Have Had Their Day And Now Get More Praise Than Perusal - Always Remind Me Of Retired Colonels And Majors And Captains Who, Having Reached The Age Limit, Find Themselves Retired On Half Pay.

To Keep The Heart Unwrinkled, To Be Hopeful, Kindly, Cheerful, Reverent That Is To Triumph Over Old Age.

The Ring Of A False Coin Is Not More Recognizable Than That Of A Rhyme Setting Forth A False Sorrow.

Shakespeare Is Forever Coming Into Our Affairs -- Putting In His Oar, So To Speak -- With Some Pat Word Or Sentence.