You Don't Talk Quite Like A Girl

I Have Felt Lately, More And More, That My Present Way Of Living Is Bad In Every Respect.

We Colour And Mould According To The Wants Within Us Whatever Our Eyes Bring In.

Teach Me To Live, That I May Dread The Grave As Little As My Bed. Teach Me To Die.

She Was Of The Stuff Of Which Great Men's Mothers Are Made. She Was Indispensable To High Generation, Hated At Tea Parties, Feared In Shops, And Loved At Crises.

We Ought To Have Lived In Mental Communion, And No More.