Once Admit That We Have The Right

Love Is Not A Hot-house Flower, But A Wild Plant, Born Of A Wet Night, Born Of An Hour Of Sunshine; Sprung From Wild Seed, Blown Along The Road By A Wild Wind. A Wild Plant That, When It Blooms By Chance Within The Hedge Of Our Gardens, We Call A Flower; And When It Blooms Outside We Call A Weed; But, Flower Or Weed, Whose Scent And Colour Are Always, Wild!

Matters Change And Morals Change; Men Remain.

I Am Still Under The Impression That There Is Nothing Alive Quite So Beautiful As A Thoroughbred Horse.

The Beginnings And Endings Of All Human Undertakings Are Untidy.

Idealism Increases In Direct Proportion To One's Distance From The Problem.