We meet no Stranger, but Ourself.
Bring me the sunset in a cup.
The pedigree of honey does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him is aristocracy.
My friends are my estate. Forgive me then the avarice to hoard them. They tell me those who were poor early have different views of gold. I don't know how that is. God is not so wary as we, else He would give us no friends, lest we forget Him.
Till it has loved, no man or woman can become itself.
Write me of hope and love, and hearts that endured.