They who see the Flying Dutchman never, never reach the shore

I'd rather live in Bohemia than in any other land.

You gave me the key of your heart, my love; Then why did you make me knock? Oh that was yesterday, saints above! And last night—I changed the lock!

How shall I a habit break? As you did that habit make. As you gathered, you must lose; As you yielded, now refuse. Thread by thread the strands we twist Till they bind us, neck and wrist.

The organized charity, scrimped and iced, In the name of a cautious, statistical Christ.

The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; O, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove.But I send you a cream-white rosebud With a flush on its petal tips, For the love that is purest and sweetest

For all time to come, the freedom and purity of the press are the test of national virtue and independence. No writer for the press, however humble, is free from the burden of keeping his purpose high and his integrity white.