I loved you when love was Spring, and May, Loved you when summer deepened into June, and now when autumn yellows all the leaves.

however many resolutions one makes, one's pen, like water, always finds its own level, and one can't write in any way other than one's own.

It is no good my telling you. One never believes other people's experiencem and one is only very gradually convinced by one's own.

The true solitary ... will feel that he is himself only when he is alone; when he is in company he will feel that he perjures himself, prostitutes himself to the exactions of others; he will feel that time spent in company is time lost; he will be conscious only of his impatience to get back to his true life.

Autumn in felted slipper shuffles on, Muted yet fiery.--Vita Sackville-West

But you, oh gardener, poet that you be / Though unaware, now use your seeds like words / And make them lilt with color nicely flung.

The wise traveler is he who is perpetually surprised.