Since Eve Ate The Apple,

In General I Do Not Draw Well With Literary Men -- Not That I Dislike Them But I Never Know What To Say To Them After I Have Praised Their Last Publication.

In The Desert A Fountain Is Springing, In The Wide Waste There Still Is A Tree, And A Bird In The Solitude Singing, Which Speaks To My Spirit Of Thee

Your Thief Looks Exactly Like The Rest, Or Rather Better; 'tis Only At The Bar, And In The Dungeon, That Wise Men Know Your Felon By His Features.

But As To Women, Who Can Penetrate The Real Sufferings Of Their She Condition? Man's Very Sympathy With Their Estate Has Much Of Selfishness And More Suspicion. Their Love, Their Virtue, Beauty, Education, But Form Good Housekeepers, To Breed A Nation.

Sleep Hath Its Own World, And The Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.