My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light!

There is no shelter in you anywhere.

April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

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.

He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.

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."

And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky.