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.

As long as I live I shall always be My Self - and no other, Just me.

What a haunting, inescapable riddle life was.

Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.

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

After all, what is every man? A horde of ghosts - like a Chinese nest of boxes - oaks that were acorns that were oaks. Death lies behind us, not in front - in our ancestors, back and back until.

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