Guess I'll weep awhile. Guess I won't, I mean.

You are loved. If so, what else matters?

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!

That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.

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

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."

No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place.