Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die.

I am the family face; flesh perishes, I live on, projecting trait and trace through time to times anon, and leaping from place to place over oblivion.

In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan of things the call seldom produces the comer, the man to love rarely coincides with the hour for loving

War makes good history but peace is poor reading.

...our impulses are too strong for our judgement sometimes

To dwellers in a wood, almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature.

She was but a transient impression, half forgotten.