Time can make soft that iron wood.

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.

One things there's no getting by, I've been a wicked girl, Says I... But, if I can't be sorry I might as well be glad !

My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I'll not be knowing, Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take, No matter where it's going.

I am all the time talking about you, and bragging, to one person or another. I am like the Ancient Mariner, who had a tale in his heart he must unfold to all. I am always buttonholing somebody and saying, "Someday you must meet my mother."

I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.

We were so wholly one I had not thought That we could die apart. I had not thought That I could move,—and you be stiff and still! That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb! I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof In some firm fabric, woven in and out; Your golden filaments in fair design Across my duller fibre.