The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain.

Skepticism, is that anything more than we used to mean when we said, Well, what have we here?

He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors.

I never dared to be radical when young for fear it would make me conservative when old.

The middle of the road is where the white line is - and that's the worst place to drive.

If you remember only one thing I've said, remember that an idea is a feat of association, and the height of it is a good metaphor. If you have never made a good metaphor, then you don't know what it's all about.

The chief reason for going to school is to get the impression fixed for life that there is a book side for everything.