See the last orange roses, how they blow / Deeper and heavier than in their prime, / In one defiant flame before they go.

April, the angel of the months, the young love of the year.

I cannot bear that you / Should think me faithful, when I am untrue.

I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal.

Everywhere bees go racing with the hours, / For every bee becomes a drunken lover, / Standing upon his head to sup the flowers.

Travel is the most private of pleasures. There is no greater bore than the travel bore. We do not in the least want to hear what he has seen in Hong-Kong.

It is dreadful how I miss you, and everything that everybody says seems flat and stupid.