Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!

Experience, like a pale musician, holds a dulcimer of patience in his hand.

May the good God pardon all good men.

It is not merely the likeness which is precious... but the association and the sense of nearness involved in the thing... the fact of the very shadow of the person lying there fixed forever! It is the very sanctification of portraits I think - and it is not at all monstrous in me to say that I would rather have such a memorial of one I dearly loved, than the noblest Artist's work ever produced.

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I .... In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used, - well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

It was not the apple on the tree but the pair on the ground that caused the trouble in the garden of Eden.

Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.