The loss of love is a terrible thing; They lie who say that death is worse.

Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:/ To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

I have a rendezvous with life.

Never love with all your heart, It only ends in aching.

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind

There is no secret to success except hard work and getting something indefinable which we call 'the breaks.

Whatever lives is granted breath But by the grace and sufferance of Death.