I Think That At The Bottom Of

One Of The Sadder Things, I Think, Is How Our Birthdays Slowly Sink: Presents And Parties Disappear, The Cards Grow Fewer Year By Year, Till, When One Reaches Sixty-five, How Many Care We're Still Alive?

Living In England Has No Such Excuse: These Are My Customs And Establishments.

But Superstition, Like Belief, Must Die.

In Times When Nothing Stood But Worsened, Or Grew Strange, There Was One Constant Good: She Did Not Change.

The Breath That Sharpens Life Is Life Itself.