The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother,

To Sit For One's Portrait Is Like Being Present At One's Own Creation.

There Is A Certain Even-handed Justice In Time; And For What He Takes Away He Gives Us Something In Return. He Robs Us Of Elasticity Of Limb And Spirit, And In Its Place He Brings Tranquility And Repose—the Mild Autumnal Weather Of The Soul.

The Sea Complains Upon A Thousand Shores.

If A Man Is Worth Knowing At All, He Is Worth Knowing Well.

In The Entire Circle Of The Year There Are No Days So Delightful As Those Of A Fine October.