Never throw mud: you can miss the target, but your hands will remain dirty.

My verses, I cannot say poems. . . . I was following in the exquisite footsteps of Miss Millay, unhappily in my own horrible sneakers.

The sun's gone dim, and the moon's gone black. For I loved him, and he didn't love back.

Where's the man could ease a heart Like a satin gown?

It was written without fear and without research.

[On being shown an apartment by a real estate agent:] Oh, dear, that's much too big. All I need is room enough to lay a hat and a few friends.

[Epitaph:] Involved in a plot.