Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.

They say of me, and so they should, It's doubtful if I come to good. I see acquaintances and friends Accumulating dividends And making enviable names In science, art and parlor games. But I, despite expert advice, Keep doing things I think are nice, And though to good I never come Inseparable my nose and thumb.

Years are only garments, and you either wear them with style all your life, or else you go dowdy to the grave.

tomorrow's gone-we'll have tonight!

I shudder at the thought of men.... I'm due to fall in love again

[On James Gould Cozzens' By Love Possessed:] It is a vast enterprise encompassing all sorts of love, except, naturally, those branches which extend to Jews, Negroes, and people who have lost track of their great-grandparents.

Travel, trouble, music, art, a kiss, a frock, a rhyme -- I never said they feed my heart, but still they pass my time.