April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
Dazzling mud and dingy snow;
Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

Let us not forget such words, and all they mean, as hatred, bitterness, and rancor greed, intolerance, bigotry; let us renew our faith and pledge to man, his right to be himself and free.

I am glad that I paid so little attention to good advice; had I abided by it I might have been saved from some of my most valuable mistakes.

When you are corn and roses and at rest I shall endure, a dense and sanguine ghost To haunt the scene where I was happiest To bend above the thing I loved the most.

When I can make Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! I had you and I have you now no more.

How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees, bringing to his antlers The buck in the snow ... Life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe.

Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over.

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies. Nobody that matters, that is.

The Englishman foxtrots as he fox-hunts, with all his being, through thickets, through ditches, over hedges, through chiffons, through waiters, over saxophones, to the victorious finish; and who goes home depends on how many the ambulance will accommodate.

There isn't a train I wouldn't take, no matter where it's going.

Set the foot down with distrust on the crust of the world -- it is thin.

When you publish something, it is very much as if you pulled your pants down in public. If what you have written is good, nobody can hurt you; if what you have written is bad, nobody can help you.

It may be said of me by Harper and Brothers, that although I reject their proposals, I welcome their advances.

Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply.

I find that I never lose Bach. I don't know why I have always loved him so. Except that he is so pure, so relentless and incorruptible, like a principle of geometry.

The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed.

I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.

I make bean stalks, I'm A builder, like yourself.