And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral drest in his shroud.

Behold I do not give lectures or a little charity, When I give I give myself.

I see behind each mask that wonder a kindred soul.

And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels.

The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk! he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation: The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listen closer, I find its purpose and place up there toward the November sky.

The dirtiest book of all is the expurgated book.

Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born? I hasten to inform him or her that it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.