Life Is First Boredom, Then Fear.

It Becomes Still More Difficult To Find
words At Once True And Kind,
or Not Untrue And Not Unkind.

One Of The Sadder Things, I Think, Is How Our Birthdays Slowly Sink: Presents And Parties Disappear, The Cards Grow Fewer Year By Year, Till, When One Reaches Sixty-five, How Many Care We're Still Alive?

Novels Seem To Me To Be Richer, Broader, Deeper, More Enjoyable Than Poems.

The Difficult Part Of Love Is Being Selfish Enough.

In Everyone There Sleeps A Sense Of Life Lived According To Love.