We Are Never Happy; We Can Only

The Pale Child, Eve, Leading Her Mother, Night.

We Twain Have Met Like The Ships Upon The Sea, Who Behold An Hour's Converse, So Short, So Sweet: One Little Hour! And Then, Away They Speed On Lonely Paths, Through Mist, And Cloud, And Foam, To Meet No More.

If You Wish To Preserve Your Secret, Wrap It Up In Frankness.

The Discovery Of A Grey Hair When You Are Brushing Out Your Whiskers Of A Morning - First Fallen Flake Of The Coming Snows Of Age - Is A Disagreeable Thing.

If We Were To Live Here Always, With No Other Care Than How To Feed, Clothe, And House Ourselves, Life Would Be A Very Sorry Business. It Is Immeasurably Heightened By The Solemnity Of Death.