There Is Nothing Good In

Fame Is But An Inscription On A Grave, And Glory The Melancholy Blazon On A Coffin Lid.

In Winter, When The Dismal Rain Comes Down In Slanting Lines, And Wind, That Grand Old Harper, Smote His Thunder-harp Of Pines.

The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother, Night.

My Friend Is Not Perfect-no More Than I Am-and So We Suit Each Other Admirable.

Style, After All, Rather Than Thought, Is The Immortal Thing In Literature.