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

Americans are like a rich father who wishes he knew how to give his son the hardships that made him rich.

Now no joy but lacks salt That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.

For I have had too much Of apple-picking:I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired.

The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.

Our life runs down in sending up the clock. The brook runs down in sending up our life. The sun runs down in sending up the brook. And there is something sending up the sun. It is this backward motion toward the source, Against the stream, that most we see ourselves in, The tribute of the current to the source. It is from this in nature we are from. It is most us.

Everything written is as good as it is dramatic. It need not declare itself in form, but it is drama or nothing.