Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn, ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

We wear the mask that grins and lies.

Washington is the city where the big men of little towns come to be disillusioned

With our short sight we affect to take a comprehensive view of eternity. Our horizon is the universe.

It's all a farce, - these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o'er field and dell, Because the year is dying.

What Joe Hamilton lacked more than anything else in the world was some one to kick him. Many a man who might have lived decently and become a fairly respectable citizen has gone to the dogs for the want of some one to administer a good resounding kick at the right time. It is corrective and clarifying.

This, this indeed is to be accursed, For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by what we have, But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

The age is materialistic. Verse isn't. I must be with the age, so I am writing prose.

A minute to smile and an hour to weep in, A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, And never a laugh but the moans come double And that is life!

Money is a great dignifier.

Poor conceited humanity! Interpreters of God indeed.

People are taking it for granted that [the Negro] ought not to work with his head. And it is so easy for these people among whom we are living to believe this it flatters and satisfies their self-complacency.

..we wear the mask that grins and lies, it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes- this debt we pay to human guile with torn and bleeding hearts we smile.

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,- When he beats his bars and would be free It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings- I know why the caged bird sings!