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

You, of course, are a rose-- But were always a rose.

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?

I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.

The mind-is not the heart. I may yet live, as I know others live, To wish in vain to let go with the mind- Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me That I need learn to let go with the heart.

Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed.

A diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman's birthday but never remembers her age.