“Oh, pity the poor gluttonWhose troubles all beginIn struggling on and on to turnWhat's out into what's in.”

“Who said, 'All Time's delightHath she for narrow bed;Life's troubled bubble broken'? ---That's what I said.”

“It was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old ditches.”

“Very old are the woods;And the buds that breakOut of the brier's boughs,When March winds wake,So old with their beauty are--Oh, no man knowsThrough what wild centuriesRoves back the rose.”

“Hi! handsome hunting manFire your little gun.Bang! Now the animalis dead and dumb and done.Nevermore to peep again, creep again, leap again,Eat or sleep or drink again. Oh, what fun!”

“We are *all* we are, and all in a sense we care to dream we are. And for that matter, anything outlandish, bizarre, is a godsend in this rather stodgy life. It is after all just what the old boy said – it's only the impossible that's credible; whatever credible may mean...”

“After all, what is every man? A horde of ghosts – like a Chinese nest of boxes – oaks that were acorns that were oaks. Death lies behind us, not in front – in our ancestors, back and back until...”