We Grow With Years More Fragile In

What Things There Are To Write, If One Could Only Write Them! My Mind Is Full Of Gleaming Thought; Gay Moods And Mysterious, Moth-like Meditations Hover In My Imagination, Fanning Their Painted Wings. But Always The Rarest, Those Streaked With Azure And The Deepest Crimson, Flutter Away Beyond My Reach.

Growing Old Is Not A Gradual Decline, But A Series Of Drops, Full Of Sorrow, From One Ledge To Another Below It.

Our Names Are Labels, Plainly Printed On The Bottled Essence Of Our Past Behavior.

All Reformers, However Strict Their Social Conscience, Live In Houses Just As Big As They Can Pay For.

How Awful To Reflect That What People Say Of Us Is True!