Let Us Then, Be Up And Doing.

Don't Cross The Bridge Til You Come To It.

A Feeling Of Sadness And Longing, That Is Not Akin To Pain, And Resembles Sorrow Only As The Mist Resembles The Rain.

Art Is The Child Of Nature In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mothers Face.

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It.

The Day Is Done; And Slowly From The Scene The Stooping Sun Upgathers His Spent Shafts, And Puts Them Back Into His Golden Quiver!