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.

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.

There never was any heart truly great and generous, that was not also tender and compassionate.

I am assured at any rate Man's practically inexterminate. Someday I must go into that. There's always been an Ararat Where someone someone else begat To start the world all over at.

I still say the only education worth anything is self-education.

Being the boss anywhere is lonely. Being a female boss in a world of mostly men is especially so.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart