Till it has loved, no man or woman can become itself.
There is always one thing to be grateful for - that one is one's self and not somebody else.
Longing, it may be, is the gift no other gift supplies.
It is finished, is never said of us
I'll tell you how the sun rose, a ribbon at a time. The steeples swam in amethyst, The news like squirrels ran. The hills untied their bonnets, The bobolinks begun. Then I said softly to myself, "That must have been the sun!
The hearts that never lean must fall.