“ Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face. ”
The love of learning, the sequestered nooks,And all the sweet serenity of books
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
As Unto the bow the the cord is ,So unto the man is woman;Though she bends him, she obeys him,Though she draws him , yet she follows:Useless each without the other.
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not, and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
I do not believe anyone can be perfectly well, who has a brain and a heart
