Even those who lose the battle are not cowards - if they have fought.
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.
Love! The poor word. How it has suffered up and down the streets of the world.
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.