Love Has No Age, No Limit; And

Wealth Is A Means To An End, Not The End Itself. As A Synonym For Health And Happiness, It Has Had A Fair Trial And Failed Dismally.

The Talked-about Is Always The Last To Hear The Talk . . .

Love Is Not A Hot-house Flower, But A Wild Plant, Born Of A Wet Night, Born Of An Hour Of Sunshine; Sprung From Wild Seed, Blown Along The Road By A Wild Wind. A Wild Plant That, When It Blooms By Chance Within The Hedge Of Our Gardens, We Call A Flower; And When It Blooms Outside We Call A Weed; But, Flower Or Weed, Whose Scent And Colour Are Always, Wild!

Life Calls The Tune, We Dance.

Come! Let Us Lay A Lance In Rest, And Tilt At Windmills Under A Wild Sky! For Who Would Live So Petty And Unblest That Dare Not Tilt At Something Ere He Die; Rather Than, Screened By Safe Majority, Preserve His Little Life To Little End, And Never Raise A Rebel Cry!