Wherever conversation's flowing, / Why must I feel it falls on me / To keep things going?

Seventy is wormwood, Seventy is gall But its better to be seventy, Than not alive at all.

Tomorrow will come and today will pass, / But the hearts of the young are brittle as glass.

The successful truck gardener can never go out to dinner in the summer or spend a week end away, because his conscience tells him he has to be at home eating up his corn or packaging his beans for the freezer.

The East is a montage. It is old and it is young, very green in summer, very white in winter, gregarious, withdrawn and at once both sophisticated and provincial.

A bookworm in bed with a new novel and a good reading lamp is as much prepared for pleasure as a pretty girl at a college dance.

Words can sting like anything, but silence breaks the heart.