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

She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.

I am all the time talking about you, and bragging, to one person or another. I am like the Ancient Mariner, who had a tale in his heart he must unfold to all. I am always buttonholing somebody and saying, "Someday you must meet my mother."

Cruel of heart, lay down my song. Your reading eyes have done me wrong. Not for you was the pen bitten, And the mind wrung, and the song written.

When you publish something, it is very much as if you pulled your pants down in public. If what you have written is good, nobody can hurt you; if what you have written is bad, nobody can help you.

Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it.

Beautiful as a dandelion-blossom golden in the green grass, this life can be.