The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother,

The Spot Of Ground On Which A Man Has Stood Is Forever Interesting To Him.

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

We Are Never Happy; We Can Only Remember That We Were So Once.

A Poem Round And Perfect As A Star.

Death Is The Ugly Fact Which Nature Has To Hide, And She Hides It Well.