Our Life Is Woven Wind.

Nothing Which Does Not Transport Is Poetry. The Lyre Is A Winged Instrument.

One Day, A Daughter Of Aristotle, Pythias By Name, Was Asked What Color Pleased Her Most. She Replied, "the Color With Which Modesty Suffuses The Face Of Simple, Inoffensive Men.

In Bringing Up A Child, Think Of Its Old Age.

Thoughts There Are, That Need No Embodying, No Form, No Expression. It Is Enough To Hint At Them Vaguely; A Word, And They Are Heard And Seen.

I Would Fain Coin Wisdom,—mould It, I Mean, Into Maxims, Proverbs, Sentences, That Can Easily Be Retained And Transmitted. Would That I Could Denounce And Banish From The Language Of Men—as Base Money—the Words By Which They Cheat And Are Cheated!