Any Man Who Does Not

It May Well Be That The Pictures Of Courbet, Manet, Monet And Their Like Contain Beauties Which Escape The Notice Of Such Old Romantic Heads As Ours, Already Streaked With Silver Threads.

Those Horses Must Have Been Spanish Jennets, Born Of Mares Mated With A Zephyr; For They Went As Swiftly As The Wind, And The Moon, Which Had Risen At Our Departure To Give Us Light, Rolled Through The Sky Like A Wheel Detached From Its Carriage.

Whatever May Have Been Said Of The Satiety Of Pleasure And Of The Disgust Which Usually Follows Passion, Any Man Who Has Anything Of A Heart And Who Is Not Wretchedly And Hopelessly Blasé Feels His Love Increased By His Happiness, And Very Often The Best Way To Retain A Lover Ready To Leave Is To Give One's Self Up To Him Without Reserve.

What I Write Is Not For Little Girls.

To Love Is To Admire With The Heart; To Admire Is To Love With The Mind.