I Am Not A Nature Poet. There

One Luminary Clock Against The Sky Proclaimed The Time Was Neither Wrong Nor Right.

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.

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

What Makes A Nation In The Beginning Is A Good Piece Of Geography.

For I Thought Epicurus And Lucretius By Nature Meant The Whole Goddam Machinery.