Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.

Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.

The past is a bucket of ashes

I decided I would go to Chicago and try my luck as a writer after those eight months as a fireman.

An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, "Come and find me, come and find me."

Man is a long time coming. Man will yet win. Brother may yet line up with brother: This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.There are men who can't be bought.

Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder.