We think-although of course, now, we very seldom Clearly think- That the other side of War is Peace.

There isn't a train I wouldn't take, no matter where it's going.

This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.

Sweet love, sweet thorn, when lightly to my heart. I took your thrust, whereby I since am slain, And I lie disheveled in the grass apart, A sodden thing bedrenched by tears and rain.

My candle burns at both ends

Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I And hailed the earth with such a cry As is not heard save from a man Who has been dead, and lives again. About the trees my arms I wound; Like one gone mad I hugged the ground; I raised my quivering arms on high; I laughed and laughed into the sky.

God, I can push the grass apart and lay my finger on Thy heart.