World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

For frequent tears have run; The colours from my life.

He who breathes deepest lives most.

If thou must love me, let it be for naught except for love's sake only.

OF writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,- Will write my story for my better self, As when you paint your portrait for a friend, Who keeps it in a drawer and looks at it Long after he has ceased to love you, just To hold together what he was and is.

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental.

A woman's always younger than a man at equal years.