Onehundredsixtynine

My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I...


Onehundredsixtyseven

Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the...


Onehundredsixtysix

The morning comes to consciousness Of faint stale smells of beer From...


Onehundredsixtyfive

The more one judges, the less one loves. HONORE DE BALZAC