Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?

Heart's ease of pansy, pleasure or thought, Which would the picture give us of these? Surely the heart that conceived it sought Heart's ease.

Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which.

Today will die tomorrow.

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

I remember the way we parted, The day and the way we met; You hoped we were both broken-hearted And knew we should both forget.

The tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog.

A little soul scarce fledged for earth Takes wing with heaven again for goal, Even while we hailed as fresh from birth A little soul.

When the hounds of Spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.

Love, as is told by the seers of old, Comes as a butterfly tipped with gold, Flutters and flies in sunlit skies, Weaving round hearts that were one time cold.

His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.

I must not imagine what is ‘not’ as a means of escaping what ‘is’. Rather, I must understand what ‘is’ and imagine how I can make it what it is ‘not’.

The world makes much less sense than you think. The coherence comes mostly from the way your mind works.

When I finally lie down, I find sleep elusive. The same thoughts that trouble me during the day are only compounded by the stillness of night.

When we want to talk, we can instead listen, and let our attentiveness to another's need to speak be our silent statement.

I would love, obviously, just to keep doing stand-up. That's the constant. That's the thing that I'm going to do for the rest of my life, but also I would like a TV show at some point.

We cannot measure, what it is we do not know to value.

I keep saying I'm going to cut back on styling, but it's hard to give up.

The fountain of youth is like the monkeys paw in the W. W. Jacobs story. It never ends well.

I never felt that getting angry would do you any good other than hurt your own digestion- keep you from eating, which I liked to do.

The thing about stories is you have to pick the ones that last.