Spring is strictly sentimental, self-regarding; but I burn more careless in the autumn bonfire.
To think of losing is to lose already.
The baby romped on my lap like a short stout salmon.
Happy is the day whose history is not written down.
There are not enough poems in praise of bed.
The body, after all, older and wiser than soul, being first created, and, like a good horse, if given its way would go home by the best path and at the right pace.