There Is Nothing So Skillful

O Winter! Frozen Pulse And Heart Of Fire, What Loss Is Theirs Who From Thy Kingdom Turn Dismayed, And Think Thy Snow A Sculptured Urn Of Death! Far Sooner In Midsummer Tire The Streams Than Under Ice. June Could Not Hire Her Roses To Forego The Strength They Learn In Sleeping On Thy Breast.

Ah, March! We Know Thou Art Kind-hearted, Spite Of Ugly Looks And Threats, And, Out Of Sight, Art Nursing April's Violets!

That Indescribable Expression Peculiar To People Who Hope They Have Not Been Asleep, But Know They Have.

If I Could Write A Story That Would Do For The Indian One-hundredth Part What 'uncle Tom's Cabin' Did For The Negro, I Would Be Thankful The Rest Of My Life.

Motherhood Is Priced Of God, At Price No Man May Dare To Lessen Or Misunderstand.