Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.
There is much to support the view that it is clothes that wear us, and not we, them; we may make them take the mould of arm or breast, but they mould our hearts, our brains, our tongues to their liking.
The man who is aware of himself is henceforward independent; and he is never bored, and life is only too short, and he is steeped through and through with a profound yet temperate happiness.
We are nauseated by the sight of trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.
Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.