I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.

But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.

All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back on loveliness and sighed.

And what are you that, missing you, I should be kept awake As many nights as there are days With weeping for your sake? And what are you that, missing you, As many days as crawl I should be listening to the wind And looking at the wall? I know a man that’s a braver man And twenty men as kind, And what are you, that you should be The one man in my mind? Yet women’s ways are witless ways, As any sage will tell,— And what am I, that I should love So wisely and so well?

I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.

I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.

[on going to Sunday school:] It looks like rain, and I hope it will rain cats and dogs and hammers and pitchforks and silver sugar spoons and hay ricks and paper-covered novels and picture frames and rag carpets and toothpicks and skating rinks and birds of paradise and roof gardens and burdocks and French grammars before Sunday school time.