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

I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.

Catch from the board of beauty/ Such careless crumbs as fall.

We think-although of course, now, we very seldom Clearly think- That the other side of War is Peace.

A Poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?

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

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."