Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.

Once a man strays out of the common herd, he's more likely to meet wolves in the thickets than angels.

Oh, pity the poor glutton Whose troubles all begin In struggling on and on to turn What's out into what's in.

Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.

It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.

As soon as they're out of your sight, you are out of their mind.

Very old are the woods; And the buds that break Out of the brier's boughs, When March winds wake, So old with their beauty are-- Oh, no man knows Through what wild centuries Roves back the rose.