She Learned Her Hands In A Fairy-tale,

Beauty Is Whatever Gives Joy.

Not Poppy, Nor Mandrake, Nor All The Drowsy Syrups Of The World, Shall Ever Medicine Thee To That Sweet Sleep, Which Thou Owest Yesterday.

To Be Grown Up Is To Sit At The Table With People Who Have Died, Who Neither Listen Nor Speak.

Life Goes On Forever Like The Gnawing Of A Mouse.

All My Life, Following Care Along The Dusty Road, Have I Looked Back On Loveliness And Sighed.