Love has earth to which she clings.

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

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?

Freud was way off base in considering sex the fundamental motivation. The ruling passion in men is minding each other's business.

The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office.

The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orch-ard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night.