The Mother's Kiss Is The Sweetest Thing

One Who Can See Without Seeming To See-- That's An Observer As Good As Three.

Bare Twigs In April Enhance Our Pleasure; We Know The Good Time Is Yet To Come.... Bare Twigs In Autumn Are Signs For Sadness; We Feel The Good Time Is Well-nigh Past.

A Man Who Keeps A Diary Pays, Due Toll To Many Tedious Days; But Life Becomes Eventful—then, His Busy Hand Forgets The Pen. Most Books, Indeed, Are Records Less Of Fulness Than Of Emptiness.

Not Like Homer Would I Write, Not Like Dante If I Might, Not Like Shakespeare At His Best, Not Like Goethe Or The Rest, Like Myself, However Small, Like Myself, Or Not At All.

Tantarrara! The Joyous Book Of Spring Lies Open, Writ In Blossoms.