Most People Worry So Much, They Think

It Was November--the Month Of Crimson Sunsets, Parting Birds, Deep, Sad Hymns Of The Sea, Passionate Wind-songs In The Pines. Anne Roamed Through The Pineland Alleys In The Park And, As She Said, Let That Great Sweeping Wind Blow The Fogs Out Of Her Soul.

Here Sat Marilla Cuthbert, When She Sat At All, Slightly Distrustful Of Sunshine, Which Seemed To Her Too Dancing And Irresponsible A Thing For A World Which Was Meant To Be Taken Seriously.

Truth Exists, Only Lies Have To Be Invented.

My Pen Shall Heal, Not Hurt.

In Daylight I Belong To The World . . . In The Night To Sleep And Eternity. But In The Dusk I'm Free From Both And Belong Only To Myself . . . And You