I would I were alive again To kiss the fingers of the rain, To drink into my eyes the shine Of every slanting silver line, To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze From drenched and dripping apple-trees. For soon the shower will be done, And then the broad face of the sun Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth Until the world with answering mirth Shakes joyously, and each round drop Rolls twinkling, from its grass-blade top.

God, I can push the grass apart and lay my finger on Thy heart.

Although we sometimes did without a few of life's necessities, we rarely lacked for its luxuries.

Here's a song was never sung: Growing old is dying young.

A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.

After all my erstwhile dear, my no longer cherished; Need we say it was not love, just because it perished?

The younger generation forms a country of its own. It has no geographical boundaries. I've talked with young Hungarians in Budapest, with young Italians in Rome, with young Frenchmen in Paris, and with young people all over. ... These young people are going to do things. They are going to change things.