Every Poem Is A Momentary Stay Against

Ends And Beginnings—there Are No Such Things. There Are Only Middles.

The Line-storm Clouds Fly Tattered And Swift, The Road Is Forlorn All Day, Where A Myriad Snowy Quartz Stones Lift, And The Hoof-prints Vanish Away. The Roadside Flowers, Too Wet For The Bee, Expend Their Bloom In Vain. Come Over The Hills And Far With Me, And Be My Love In The Rain.

I'm Not Confused. I'm Just Well Mixed.

I Never Dared To Be Radical When Young For Fear It Would Make Me Conservative When Old.

A Diplomat Is A Man Who Always Remembers A Woman's Birthday But Never Remembers Her Age.