[…] nigh her lids eclipse Each half-occulted star beneath that lies;

Of all the queer collections of humans outside of a crazy asylum, it seemed to me this sanitarium was the cup winner. […] When you're well enough off so's you don't have to fret about anything but your heft or your diseases you begin to get queer, I suppose.

The wine in my bottle will recover him.

a twin-turbined engine