An Author Is Like A Baker; It

Some Tears Belong To Us Because We Are Unfortunate; Others, Because We Are Humane; Many, Because We Are Mortal. But Most Are Caused By Our Being Unwise. It Is These Last Only That Of Necessity Produce More.

Music Is The Medicine Of The Breaking Heart.

We Must Regard All Matter As An Intrusted Secret Which We Believe The Person Concerned Would Wish To Be Considered As Such. Nay, Further Still, We Must Consider All Circumstances As Secrets Intrusted Which Would Bring Scandal Upon Another If Told.

It Flows Through Old Hushed Egypt And Its Sands, Like Some Grave Mighty Thought Threading A Dream, And Times And Things, As In That Vision, Seem Keeping Along It Their Eternal Stands.

This Garden Has A Soul, I Know Its Moods.