So Our Lives Glide On: The River

Those Bitter Sorrows Of Childhood!-- When Sorrow Is All New And Strange, When Hope Has Not Yet Got Wings To Fly Beyond The Days And Weeks, And The Space From Summer To Summer Seems Measureless.

I've Never Any Pity For Conceited People, Because I Think They Carry Their Comfort About With Them.

It Is Not True That A Man's Intellectual Power Is, Like The Strength Of A Timber Beam, To Be Measured By Its Weakest Point.

In Poor Rosamond's Mind There Was Not Room Enough For Luxuries To Look Small In.

What Do We Live For, If Not To Make Life Less Difficult For Each Other?