Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars. Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold, And the great price we paid for it full worth: We have it only when we are half earth. Little avails that coinage to the old!

Woman's reason is in the milk of her breasts.

Cultivated men and women who do not skim the cream of life, and are attached to the duties, yet escape the harsher blows, make acute and balanced observers.

The future not being born, my friend, we will abstain from baptizing it.

I know him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.

A human act once set in motion flows on forever to the great account. Our deathlessness is in what we do, not in what we are.

I expect Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man.