Tumbling-hair picker of buttercups violets dandelions And the big bullying daisies through the field wonderful with eyes a little sorry Another comes also picking flowers.
Be of love a little more careful than of anything.
Tomorrow is our permanent address.
As small as a world as large as alone.
Nobody loses all the time.
O gouvernment francais, I think it was not very clever of You to put this terrible doll in La Ferte; for when Governments are found dead there is always a little doll on top of them, pulling and tweaking with his little hands to get back at the microscopic knife which sticks firmly in the quiet meat of their hearts.
The theory of the free press is not that the truth will be presented completely or perfectly in any one instance, but that the truth will emerge from free discussion.
I don’t like the memories because the tears come easily, and once again I break my promise to myself for this day. It’s a constant battle. a war between remembering and forgetting.
Only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses. Nobody, not even the rain has such small hands.
You are my sun, my moon, and all of my stars.
I fear no fate for you are my fate, my sweet.
As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn’t a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time – and whenever we do it, we’re not poets.
It was hard enough to get to this point, to figure out what my true purpose is and who I am, and then when I found the courage to start living it, I thought the hard work was done!
Favor everything without exception that makes people different: discourage everything whatsoever that makes people alike. The Rest follows.
Why according to tomorrow’s paper the proletariat will not rise yesterday.
How do you like your blue-eyed boy Mr Death?
I gave him a pleasant smile, which said, If I could see your intestines very slowly embracing a large wooden drum rotated by means of a small iron crank turned gently and softly by myself, I should be extraordinarily happy.
Now is the time when all occasional things close into silence.
Any apparent somewhere which you may inhabit is always at the mercy of a ruthless and omnivorous everywhere.
Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.
Unless you love someone, nothing else makes any sense.