How Many A Thing Which

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.

We Never Know What's In Us Till We Stand By Ourselves.

Behold The Life At Ease; It Drifts, The Sharpened Life Commands Its Course.

Woman's Reason Is In The Milk Of Her Breasts.

Much Benevolence Of The Passive Order May Be Traced To A Disinclination To Inflict Pain Upon Oneself.