Love Gives Itself; It Is Not Bought.

One Half The World Must Sweat And Groan That The Other Half May Dream.

Art Is The Child Of Nature In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mothers Face.

I Have A Passion For Ballad. . . . They Are The Gypsy Children Of Song, Born Under Green Hedgerows In The Leafy Lanes And Bypaths Of Literature,--in The Genial Summertime.

I Stay A Little Longer, As One Stays, To Cover Up The Embers That Still Burn.

The Heart, Like The Mind, Has A Memory. And In It Are Kept The Most Precious Keepsakes.