Matters Change And Morals Change; Men Remain.

It Is An Age Of Stir And Change, A Season Of New Wine And Old Bottles. Yet, Assuredly, In Spite Of Breakages And Waste, A Wine Worth The Drinking Is All The Time Being Made.

I Am Still Under The Impression That There Is Nothing Alive Quite So Beautiful As A Thoroughbred Horse.

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!

The Value Of A Sentiment Is The Amount Of Sacrifice You Are Prepared To Make For It.

Beginnings Are Always Messy.