It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.

There is no thing that with a twist of the imagination cannot be something else. Porpoises risen in a green sea, the wind at nightfall bending the rose- red grasses and you- in your apron hurrying to catch- say it seems to you to be your son. How ridiculous! You will pass up into a cloud and look back at me, not count the scribbling foolish that put wings at your heels, at your knees.

I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.

Hell take curtains! Go with some show of inconvenience; sit openly - to the weather as to grief. Or do you think you can shut your grief in?

It is not what you say that matters but the manner in which you say it; there lies the secret of the ages.

Most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them

A poem is a small machine made out of words.