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

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.

A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public eye with his pants down.

If I could have two things in one: the peace of the grave, and the light of the sun.

The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.

Please give me some good advice in your next letter. I promise not to follow it.

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.