Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he: Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.

Come home to men's business and bosoms.

So lonely 'twas that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.

Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.

Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.

Morality is a venereal disease. Its primary stage is called virtue; its secondary stage, boredom; its tertiary stage, syphilis.

The songs are inspired by my experiences. Sometimes they are more than my real-life and, conversely, my life is more than just my songs.

An ass is but an ass, though laden with gold.

The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.

A man who won't die for something is not fit to live.

Do everything with a mind that lets go. Do not expect praise or reward.

It's too bad I'm not as wonderful a person as people say I am, because the world could use a few people like that.

My advice to those who are about to begin, in earnet, the journey of life, is to take their heart in one hand and a club in the other.

Always design a thing by considering it in its next larger context -- a chair in a room, a room in a house, a house in an environment, an environment in a city plan. - "Time", July 2, 1956.

No marvel, an it like your majesty, My Lord Protector's hawks do tower so well; They know their master loves to be aloft And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch.

Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 3.

A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops.

We blame fate for other accidents, but we feel personally responsible when we make a hole in one.

When May, with cowslip-braided locks, Walks through the land in green attire. And burns in meadow-grass the phlox His torch of purple fire: . . . . And when the punctual May arrives, With cowslip-garland on her brow, We know what once she gave our lives, And cannot give us now!

One does not kill oneself for love of a woman, but because love -- any love -- reveals us in our nakedness, our misery, our vulnerability, our nothingness.