That One True Heart Was

There Was Now A Distinct Manifestation Of Morning In The Air, And Presently The Bleared White Visage Of A Sunless Winter Day Emerged Like A Dead-born Child.

George's Son Had Done His Work So Thoroughly That He Was Considered Too Good A Workman To Live, And Was, In Fact, Taken And Tragically Shot At Twelve O'clock That Same Day—another Instance Of The Untoward Fate Which So Often Attends Dogs And Other Philosophers Who Follow Out A Train Of Reasoning To Its Logical Conclusion, And Attempt Perfectly Consistent Conduct In A World Made Up So Largely Of Compromise.

...our Impulses Are Too Strong For Our Judgement Sometimes

Did It Never Strike Your Mind That What Every Woman Says, Some Women May Feel?

Of Course Poets Have Morals And Manners Of Their Own, And Custom Is No Argument With Them.