Life Seems A Jest Of Fate's Contriving.

A Woman's Love Is Mighty, But A Mother's Heart Is Weak, And By Its Weakness Overcomes.

Books Are The Bees Which Carry The Quickening Pollen From One To Another Mind.

This Goin' Ware Glory Waits Ye Haint One Agreeable Feetur.

Beauty Hath No True Glass, Except It Be In The Sweet Privacy Of Loving Eyes.

We Look At Death Through The Cheap-glazed Windows Of The Flesh, And Believe Him The Monster Which The Flawed And Cracked Glass Represents Him.