If childhood is still a state, it is now chiefly a state of confusion.

Meek-eyed parents hasten down the ramps To greet their offspring, terrible from camps.

Oh, high is the price of parenthood, and daughters may cost you double. You dare not forget, as you thought you could, that youth is a plague and a trouble.

The wonderful thing about saints is that they were human. They lost their tempers, got hungry, scolded God, were egotistical or impatient in their turns, made mistakes and regretted them. Still they went on doggedly blundering toward heaven.

The knowingness of little girls, is hidden underneath their curls.

Ah, snug lie those that slumber Beneath Conviction's roof. Their floors are sturdy lumber, Their windows weatherproof. But I sleep cold forever And cold sleep all my kind, For I was born to shiver In the draft from an open mind.

Compromise, if not the spice of life, is its solidity. It is what makes nations great and marriages happy