Of Writing Many Books There Is No

Definition Of Love: A Score Of Zero In Tennis. I Love Thee With The Breath, Smiles, Tears Of All My Life.

Why, What Is To Live? Not To Eat And Drink And Breathe,—but To Feel The Life In You Down All The Fibres Of Being, Passionately And Joyfully.

Experience, Like A Pale Musician, Holds A Dulcimer Of Patience In His Hand.

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End.

Many A Crown Covers Bald Foreheads.