The fog comes on little cat feet.

Be careful with your words, once they are said, they can only be forgiven, not forgotten.

Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.

History is a living horse laughing at a wooden horse. History is a wind blowing where it listeth. History is no sure thing to bet on. History is a box of tricks with a lost key. History is a labyrinth of doors with sliding panels, a book of ciphers with the code in a cave of the Saragossa sea. History says, if it pleases, Excuse me, I beg your pardon, it will never happen again if I can help it.

I never made a mistake in grammar but one in my life and as soon as I done it I seen it.

The single clenched fist lifted and ready, Or the open asking hand held out and waiting. Choose: For we meet by one or the other.

Poetry is statement of a series of equations, with numbers and symbols changing like the changes of mirrors, pools, skies, the only never-changing sign being the sign of infinity.