You, of course, are a rose-- But were always a rose.

Let him that is without stone among you cast the first thing he can lay his hands on.

Ants are a curious race

O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow, Make the day seem to us less brief... Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst.

A true sonnet goes eight lines and then takes a turn for better or worse and goes six or eight lines more.

For, dear me, why abandon a belief, Merely because it ceases to be true, Cling to it long enough, and not a doubt, It will turn true again, for so it goes.

You can be a rank insider as well as a rank outsider.