Little Words When you are gone, there is nor bloom nor leaf, Nor singing sea at night, nor silver birds; And I can only stare, and shape my grief In little words. I cannot conjure loveliness, to drown The bitter woe that racks my cords apart. The weary pen that sets my sorrow down Feeds at my heart. There is no mercy in the shifting year, No beauty wraps me tenderly about. I turn to little words- so you, my dear, Can spell them out.

The Swiss are a neat and an industrious people, none of whom is under seventy-five years of age.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song

When you have to apologize, it is well, I suppose, to get the thing over quickly.

I require only three things of a man. He must be handsome, ruthless and stupid.

What writes worse than a Theodore Dreiser? ... Two Theodore Dreisers.

I don't mind anything that's written about me, as long as it's not true.