Life in itself / Is nothing, / An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. / It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, / April / Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

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

Please don't think me negligent or rude. I am both, in effect, of course, but please don't think me either.

A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.

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

Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour falls from the sky a meteoric shower of facts; They lie unquestioned, uncombined. Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill is daily spun, But there exists no loom to weave it into fabric.

I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.