Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
Like a blind spinner in the sun,I tread my days:I know that all the threads will runAppointed ways. I know each day will bring its task,And being blind no more I ask.
The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.
O bees, sweet bees!" I said; "that nearest field Is shining white with fragrant immortelles Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells.
No days such honored days as these! While yet Fair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wide For some fair thing which should forever bide On earth, her beauteous memory to set In fitting frame that no age could forget, Her name in lovely April's name did hide, And leave it there, eternally allied To all the fairest flowers Spring did beget.
The wild mustard in Southern California is like that spoken of in the New Testament. . . . Its gold is as distinct a value to the eye as the nugget gold is in the pocket.
O month when they who love must love and wed.
I call for actors burning at the stakes, laughing at the flames.
Is not the tremendous strength in men of the impulse to creative work in every field precisely due to their feeling of playing a relatively small part in the creation of living beings, which constantly impels them to an overcompensation in achievement?
If I am thinking the same as everyone why bother pushing to get it published?
Everything is a drug. Family, art, causes, new shoes… We’re all just tweaking our chem to avoid the void.