I Do Loathe Explanations.

She Was A Lovely Lady, With A Romantic Mind And Such A Sweet Mocking Mouth. Her Romantic Mind Was Like The Tiny Boxes, One Within The Other, That Come From The Puzzling East, However Many You Discover There Is Always One More; And Her Sweet Mocking Mouth Had One Kiss On It That Wendy Could Never Get, Though There It Was, Perfectly Conspicuous In The Right-hand Corner.

Oh, You Mysterious Girls, When You Are Fifty-two We Shall Find You Out; You Must Come Into The Open Then. If The Mouth Has Fallen Sourly Yours The Blame: All The Meanness Your Youth Concealed Have Been Gathering In Your Face. But The Pretty Thoughts And Sweet Ways And Dear, Forgotten Kindnesses Linger There Also, To Bloom In Your Twilight Like Evening Primroses.

I've Sometimes Thought . . . That The Difference Between Us And The English Is That The Scotch Are Hard In All Other Respects But Soft With Women, And The English Are Hard With Women But Soft In All Other Respects.

Two Is The Beginning Of The End.

Dreams Do Come True, If We Only Wish Hard Enough.