Hold dear to your parents for it is a scary and confusing world without them.

The truth I do not dare to know I muffle with a jest.

A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.

How softly summer shuts, without the creaking of a door.

My best Acquaintances are those With Whom I spoke no Word

Hope is a thing with feathers

I don't profess to be profound; but I do lay claim to common sense.