No writing on the solitary, meditative dimensions of life can say anything that has not already been said better by the wind in the pine trees.
All that we did, all that we said or sang must come from contact with the soil.
When You Are Old" WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
What man does not understand, he fears; and what he fears, he tends to destroy.
A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed half awake and half asleep, Until she came into the Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. And she is still there, busied with a dance Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.
There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.
The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.
I've usually found that the greatest rewards in my life come from taking on things that are a little bit scary.
That's great. I'm 100 years old and people are still interested.
Something is clearly wrong with Kansas and the rest of Middle America when it comes to letting economic self-interest guide their voting.
Substances that are injurious to the well are equally (or more so) injurious to the sick.