If Childhood Is Still A State, It

A Mother's Hardest To Forgive. Life Is The Fruit She Longs To Hand You Ripe On A Plate. And While You Live, Relentlessly She Understands You.

The East Is A Montage. It Is Old And It Is Young, Very Green In Summer, Very White In Winter, Gregarious, Withdrawn And At Once Both Sophisticated And Provincial.

I Sing Connecticut, Her Charms / Of Rivers, Orchards, Blossoming Ridges. / I Sing Her Gardens, Fences, Farms, / Spiders And Midges.

How Happy Is The Optimist / To Whom Life Shows Its Sunny Side / His Horse May Lose, His Ship May List, / But He Always Sees The Funny Side.

Men Can't Be Trusted With Pruning Shears Any More Than They Can Be Trusted With The Grocery Money In A Delicatessen . . . They Are Like Boys With New Pocket Knives Who Will Not Stop Whittling.