And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea.

Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere.

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

This have I known always: Love is no more than the wide blossom which the wind assails, than the great tide that treads the shifting shore, strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales; Pity me that the heart is slow to learn, that the swift mind beholds at every turn.

Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well; why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.

Ah, I could lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me

Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour falls from the sky a meteoric shower of facts; They lie unquestioned, uncombined. Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill is daily spun, But there exists no loom to weave it into fabric.