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Ring-ting! I wish I were a primrose, A bright yellow primrose blowing in the spring! The stooping boughs above me, The wandering bee to love me, The fern and moss to creep across, And the elm-tree for our king!

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J. D. Salinger

The true poet has no choice of material. The material plainly chooses him, not he it.

Choice, Choices, Chooses, Material, Materials, Poet
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Don't hate me because I can't remember some person immediately. Especially when they look like everybody else, and talk and dress and act like everybody else.

Dresses, Everybody, Hate, Like, Looks, Remember

It's not too bad when the sun's out, but the sun only comes out when it feels like coming out.

Bad, Coming, Coming Out, Feels, Like, Sun

The room was not impressively large, even by Manhattan apartment-house standards, but its accumulated furnishings might have lent a snug appearance to a banquet hall in Valhalla.

Appearance, Hall, House, Manhattan, Snug, Valhalla

Phooey, I say, on all white-shoe college boys who edit their campus literary magazines. Give me an honest con man any day.

Boys, College, Edit, Men, Say

I’m not going to bed after all. Somebody around here hath murdered sleep. Good for him.

Bed, Good, Murdered, Sleep, Somebody
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