One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the dame day as we do ourselves.
Any memory for the most part depending on chance.
Saki says that youth is like hors d'oeuvres: you are so busy thinking of the next courses you don't notice it. When you've had them, you wish you'd had more hors d'oeuvres.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
I didn't choose poetry: poetry chose me.
What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over. Theyare to be happy in: Where can we live but days?