I find that I never lose Bach. I don't know why I have always loved him so. Except that he is so pure, so relentless and incorruptible, like a principle of geometry.

There are a hundred places where I fear To go, --so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, 'There is no memory of him here!' And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

My candle burns at both ends

I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind.

Not poppy, nor mandrake, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep, Which thou owest yesterday.

I drank at every vine, the last was like the first. I came upon no wine so wonderful as thirst.

Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.