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.

If ever I said in grief or pride, I'd tired of honest things, I lied.

I make bean stalks, I'm A builder, like yourself.

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

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

Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne's Lace.

Life is a quest and love a quarrel