Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

The rain to the wind said, You push and I'll pelt.' They so smote the garden bed That the flowers actually knelt, And lay lodged--though not dead. I know how the flowers felt.

More men die of worry than of work, because more men worry than work.

The only way out is through.

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

As it is more blessed to receive, so it must be more blessed to receive than to give back.

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