My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.

Isn't it funny that anything the Supreme Court says is right?

Poetry is the first thing lost in translation.

In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life - It goes on.

The ladies of St. James's! They're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever Their red it never dies: But Phillida, my Phillida! Her color comes and go…

I care not for these ladies, That must be wooed and prayed; Give me kind Amaryllis, The wanton country maid. Nature art disdaineth; Her beauty is her own.

He is the happy wanderer, who goes, Singing upon the way, with eyes awake To every scene, with ears alert to take The sweetness of all sounds; who loves and kn…