Forgive me my nonsense, as I also forgive the nonsense of those that think they talk sense.

Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?

Any work of art must first of all tell a story.

If the day ever comes when they know who They are, they may know better where they are.

Tolerance is the uncomfortable feeling that in the end the other could be right.

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree~ And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.