The spring in Boston is like being in love: bad days slip in among the good ones, and the whole world is at a standstill, then the sun shines, the tears dry up, and we forget that yesterday was stormy.
London is like a woman with too many years to encourage confession.
I guess the quality that makes one write poetry keeps one from selling it.
Even those who lose the battle are not cowards - if they have fought.
Love! The poor word. How it has suffered up and down the streets of the world.