How nature loves the incomplete. She knows If she drew a conclusion it would finish her.
Where in this small-talking world can I find A longitude with no platitude?
How can we be scrupulous In a life which, from birth onwards, is so determined To wring us dry of any serenity at all?
Day's work is still to do, Whatever the day's doom.
Comedy is an escape, not from truth but from despair; a narrow escape into faith.
How can a man learn navigation Where there's no rudder?