To Travel Is To Live.

‎"does All The Beauty Of The World Stop When You Die?" "no," Said The Old Oak; "it Will Last Much Longer - Longer Than I Can Even Think Of." "well, Then," Said The Little May-fly, "we Have The Same Time To Live; Only We Reckon Differently.

Well, Yes: People Write Poems When They Are In Love, But A Wise Man Will Not Print Them.

I Have Gone Through The Most Terrible Affair That Could Possibly Happen; Only Imagine, My Shadow Has Gone Mad; I Suppose Such A Poor, Shallow Brain, Could Not Bear Much; He Fancies That He Has Become A Real Man, And That I Am His Shadow.

My Life Will Be The Best Illustration Of All My Work.

Then He Rustled His Feathers, Curved His Slender Neck, And Cried Joyfully, From The Depths Of His Heart, 'i Never Dreamed Of Such Happiness As This, While I Was An Ugly Duckling.