More Men Die Of Worry Than Of

The First Thing I Do In Any Town I Come To Is Ask If It Has A Bookstore.

I Have Stood Still And Stopped The Sound Of Feet When Far Away An Interrupted Cry Came Over Houses From Another Street, But Not To Call Me Back Or Say Good-bye.

All The Fun Is In How You Say A Thing.

I Only Hope That When I Am Free, As They Are Free To Go In Quest, Of The Knowledge Beyond The Bounds Of Life, It May Not Seem Better To Me To Rest.

Our Life Runs Down In Sending Up The Clock. The Brook Runs Down In Sending Up Our Life. The Sun Runs Down In Sending Up The Brook. And There Is Something Sending Up The Sun. It Is This Backward Motion Toward The Source, Against The Stream, That Most We See Ourselves In, The Tribute Of The Current To The Source. It Is From This In Nature We Are From. It Is Most Us.