Take It, And Turn To

And If Kisses In These Words Could Travel Too, Madam, You'd Read This Letter With Your Lips.

Where Lurk Sweet Echoes Of The Dear Homevoices, Each Note Of Which Calls Like A Little Sister, Those Airs Slow, Slow Ascending, As The Smokewreaths Rise From The Hearthstones Of Our Native Hamlets Cyrano Act 5.

All My Laurels You Have Riven Away, And My Roses; Yet In Spite Of You, There Is One Crown I Bear Away With Me... One Thing Without Stain, Unspotted From The World, In Spite Of Doom Mine Own! And That Is... My White Plume.

To Joke In The Face Of Danger Is The Supreme Politeness, A Delicate Refusal To Cast Oneself As A Tragic Hero.

I Have A Different Idea Of Elegance. I Don't Dress Like A Fop, It's True, But My Moral Grooming Is Impeccable. I Never Appear In Public With A Soiled Conscience, A Tarnished Honor, Threadbare Scruples, Or An Insult That I Haven't Washed Away. I'm Always Immaculately Clean, Adorned With Independence And Frankness. I May Not Cut A Stylish Figure, But I Hold My Soul Erect. I Wear My Deeds As Ribbons, My Wit Is Sharper Then The Finest Mustache, And When I Walk Among Men I Make Truths Ring Like Spurs.