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

Should at that moment the full moon Step forth upon the hill, And memories hard to bear at noon, By moonlight harder still, Form in the shadows of the trees, - Things that you could not spare And live, or so you thought, yet these All gone, and you still there, A man no longer what he was, Not yet the thing he planned.

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

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!

Cut if you will with sleep's dull knife, the years from off your life, my friend! the years that death takes off my life, he'll take from off the other end!

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age. The child is grown, and puts away childish things. Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

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