Those Who Have Lost An Infant Are

Table Talk, To Be Perfect, Should Be Sincere Without Bigotry, Differing Without Discord, Sometimes Grave, Always Agreeable, Touching On Deep Points, Dwelling Most On Seasonable Ones, And Letting Everybody Speak And Be Heard.

Music Is The Medicine Of The Breaking Heart.

The Last Excessive Feelings Of Delight Are Always Grave.

We Are Slumberous Poppies, Lords Of Lethe Downs, Some Awake And Some Asleep, Sleeping In Our Crowns. What Perchance Our Dreams May Know, Let Our Serious May Know.

Great Women Belong To History And To Self-sacrifice, Not To The Annals Of A Stage, However Dignified.