Poetry's Unnat'ral; No Man Ever

I Find My Breath Gets Short, But It Seldom Gets Longer As A Man Gets Older. I Take It As It Comes, And Make The Most Of It. That's The Best Way, Ain't It?

The More Especially, As In My Juvenile Frankness, I Took Some Credit To Myself For Being So Confidential And Felt That I Was Quite The Patron Of My Two Respectful Entertainers.

Along The Paris Streets, The Death-carts Rumble, Hollow And Harsh. Six Tumbrils Carry The Day's Wine To La Guillotine.

There Was Something Very Comfortable In Having Plenty Of Stationery.

The Talker Has Found A Hearer But Not A Listener; And Though He May Talk His Very Best For His Own Sake, You Will Find That His Mental Movements Are Erratic: They Have No Fixed Centre And No Definite Object. His Talk Is Like The Water Of A Canal Whose Banks Have Given Way, Which Rolls Aimlessly Hither And Thither, Without Fulfilling Any Useful Function, Though It Is The Same Water Which Was So Helpful And Serviceable, When It Was Confined Within Clearly Marked Limits By The Restraining Force Of Its Earthy Boundaries.