Like a pale martyr in his shirt of fire.

The man who in this world can keep the whiteness of his soul is not likely to lose it in any other.

In winter, when the dismal rain Comes down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines.

Time has fallen asleep in the afternoon sunshine.

'Pain is temporary, glory...lasts forever!'

All for myself the sigh would swell, The tear of anguish start; I little knew what wilder woe Had filled the Poet's heart. I did not know the nights of gloom, …

Finally, she broke her silence and spelled it out to Dr. Burkley. Kneeling, John Kennedy's personal physician indicated her ghastly skirt with a trembling hand…