This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.

Stranger, pause and look; From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!

Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply.

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

I would blossom if I were a rose.

To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak.

I love humanity but I hate people.