I never feel more at home than at a ballgame.

There are few sorrows, however poignant, in which a good income is of no avail.

The chance is the remotest, Of its going much longer unnoticed, That I'm not keeping pace With the headlong human race

A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.

Friends make pretence of following to the grave but before one is in it, their minds are turned and making the best of their way back to life and living people and things they understand.

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