To Be Alive──is Power.

Besides The Autumn Poets Sing, A Few Prosaic Days, A Little This Side Of The Snow, And That Side Of The Haze..., Grant Me, Oh Lord, A Sunny Mind- Thy Windy Will To Bear!

I Don't Profess To Be Profound; But I Do Lay Claim To Common Sense.

A Sick Room Is At Times Too Sacred A Place For A Friend's Knock, Timid As That Is.

The Appetite For Silence Is Seldom An Acquired Taste.

Unto A Broken Heart No Other One May Go Without The High Prerogative Itself Hath Suffered Too.