I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart

For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.

No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.

Music is the language spoken by angels.

The day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!

Dreams or illusions, call them what you will, they lift us from the commonplace of life to better things.

Intelligence and courtesy not always are combined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we find.