But O The Truth, The

Sunrays, Leaning On Our Southern Hills And Lighting Wild Cloud-mountains That Drag The Hills Along, Oft Ends The Day Of Your Shifting Brilliant Laughter Chill As A Dull Face Frowning On A Song. Ay, But Shows The South-west A Ripple-feathered Bosom Blown To Silver While The Clouds Are Shaken And Ascend Scaling The Mid-heavens As They Stream, There Comes A Sunset Rich, Deep Like Love In Beauty Without End.

A Woman Who Is Not Quite A Fool Will Forgive Your Being But A Man, If You Are Surely That. . .

My Religion Of Life Is Always To Be Cheerful.

The Season Of Love Is The Carnival Of Egoism And It Brings A Touchstone To Our Natures.

Published Memoirs Indicate The End Of A Man's Activity, And That He Acknowledges The End.