A Mystery, And A Dream, Should My

Men Die Nightly In Their Beds, Wringing The Hands Of Ghostly Confessors ... On Account Of The Hideousness Of Mysteries Which Will Not Suffer Themselves To Be Revealed.

Those Who Gossip With You Will Gossip About You.

No Murmur Arose From Its Bed, And So Gently It Wandered Along, That The Pearly Pebbles Upon Which We Loved To Gaze, Far Down Within Its Bosom, Stirred Not At All, But Lay In A Motionless Content, Each In Its Own Old Station, Shining On Gloriously Forever.

Grammar Is The Analysis Of Language.

The Goodness Of Your True Pun Is In The Direct Ratio Of Its Intolerability.