There is no song to your singing.
Our lives are like a candle in the wind.
I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way.
Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.
There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.
I can remember only a few of the strange and curious words now dead but living and spoken by the English people a thousand years ago.