I barely have time for my own children. To adopt more children and not have time for them, that would be poor parenting on my part.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.

There are only two lasting bequests that we can hope to give our children — roots and wings.

I think, at a child’s birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift should be curiosity.

War was easier than daughters.