The world changes, and all that once was strong now proves unsure.

The one small garden of a free gardener was all his need and due, not a garden swollen to a realm; his own hands to use, not the hands of others to command.

Voiceless it cries, Wingless flutters, Toothless bites, Mouthless mutters.

For still there are so many things that I have never seen: in every wood in every spring there is a different green.

My political opinions lean more and more to anarchy. The most improper job of any man, even saints, is bossing other men. There is only one bright spot and that is the growing habit of disgruntled men of dynamiting factories and power stations. I hope that, encouraged now as patriotism, may remain a habit.

Not everyone who wanders is lost.

I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.