All's well with thee if thou art in just hands.

I meant to write a song of battle, for storied deeds of war inspire I seemed to hear the cannon thunder, I seemed to see the smoke and fire. But oh, the pathos of the ending when brave men conquered in the fight, knelt, kissing yielded blood-stained colors!--my eyes are blurred, I cannot write.

I do not wish to grow old, to outlive my illusions. Only a short respite from cares and sorrow, a brief time of flowers, and music, and love, and laughter, and ecstatic tears.

Words? I tell you not to write me letters I command you. Is it not enough to want you so in vain, but you send me what evokes you here before me -- this paper, all along whose lines your hand has lain?

There is nothing so entirely desirable in all the world as a few hours oblivion.

I shall pass Dawn on her way to earth, as I seek for a path through space.

I bought the sweetness with this pain.

Love's the little leaven that works the whole world glad.