I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.
O sweet delusive Noon Which the morning climbs to find O moment sped too soon And morning left behind.
O month when they who love must love and wed.
If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what...
If I can do one hundredth part for the Indian that Mrs. Stowe did for the...
By Thursday morning, we'd gotten over the worst of it.
I don't hate L.A., but I'm nervous about becoming one of those people who...
I knew however that the next morning after the fight I would have to get...
