The woman who creates and sustains a home, and under whose hands children grow up to be strong and pure men and women, is a creator second only to God.

O sweet, delusive Noon, Which the morning climbs to find, O moment sped too soon, And morning left behind.

That indescribable expression peculiar to people who hope they have not been asleep, but know they have.

Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name?

If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.

Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.

Who waits until the wind shall silent keep Will never find the ready hour to sow.