As A Man Grows Older It Is

Sorrows Are Like Thunderclouds, In The Distance They Look Black, Over Our Heads Scarcely Gray.

The Last, Best Fruit Which Comes To Late Perfection, Even In The Kindliest Soul, Is Tenderness Toward The Hard, Forbearance Toward The Unforbearing, Warmth Of Heart Toward The Cold, Philanthropy Toward The Misanthropic.

Repetition Is The Mother Of Education.

Our Birthdays Are Feathers In The Broad Wing Of Time.

Like The Greatest Virtue And The Worst Dogs, The Fiercest Hatred Is Silent.