Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.

The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow Loosely as cannon-smoke... Is a reminder of the strength and pain Of being young; that it can't come again, But is for others undiminished somewhere.

Clearly money has something to do with life.

How little our careers express what lies in us, and yet how much time they take up. It's sad, really.

I am beginning to think of the human imagination as a fruit machine on which victories are rare and separated by much vain expense, and represent a rare alignment of mental and spiritual qualities that normally are quite at odds.

We should be careful / Of each other, we should be kind / While there is still time.

And the case of butterflies so rich it looks As if all summer settled there and died.