My own curiosity and interest are insatiable.

Thou two-faced year, Mother of Change and Fate...

My own curiosity and interest are insatiable.

Thick February mists cling heavily To the dead earth and to each leafless tree, And closer down upon the hilltops draw, Dull forecasts there of bright, sure-coming spring; Yet the heart gathers hope and strange delight From this dear, unlovely, wished-for sight Of leaden-misted twilights lengthening.

I am never going to write for the sake of writing.

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

Life's sharpest rapture is surcease of pain.