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

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?

A poem is this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound.

O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.

The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.

All women are not Helen, I know that, but have Helen in their hearts.

History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.