What child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours, when spring comes sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud-sails and the misty pennon of the east-wind nailed to the mast.
The story, from beginning to end, I found again in a heart of a friend.
Softly the evening came /with the sunset/.
Don't cross the bridge til you come to it.
In the long run men hit only what they aim at.
A sermon is no sermon in which I cannot hear the heartbeat.