Death's not a separation or alteration or parting; it's just a one-handled door.

Marriage I think For women Is the best of opiates. It kills the thoughts That think about the thoughts, It is the best of opiates. So said Maria. But too long in solitude she'd dwelt, And too long her thoughts had felt Their strength. So when the man drew near, Out popped her thoughts and covered him with fear. Poor Maria! Better that she had kept her thoughts on a chain, For now she's alone again and all in pain; She sighs for the man that went and the thoughts that stay To trouble her dreams by night and her dreams by day.

I'm alive today, therefore I'm just as much a part of our time as everybody else. The times will just have to enlarge themselves to make room for me, won't they, and for everybody else.

Why does my muse only speak when she is uhnhappy? She does not, I only listen when I am unhappy.

This is the simplest of all thoughts, that Death must come when we call, although he is a god.

This Englishwoman is so refined, She has no bosom and no behind.

My Muse sits forlorn She wishes she had not been born She sits in the cold No word she says is ever told.