Oh, what a tangled web do parents weave, when they think that their children are naive.

At another year I would not boggle Except that when I jog I joggle.

When I remember bygone days I think how evening follows morn So many I loved were not yet dead, So many I love were not yet born.

I myself am more and more inclined to agree with Omar and Satchel Paige as I grow older: Don't try to rewrite what the moving finger has writ, and don't ever look over your shoulder.

But children, hark! Your mother would rather, When you arrived, have been your father.

The bed is a bundle of paradoxes: we go to it with reluctance, yet we quit it with regret; we make up our minds every night to leave it early, but we make up our bodies every morning to keep it late.

To love is an active verb.