A book may be compared to your neighbor: if it be good, it cannot last too long; if bad, you cannot get rid of it too early.
— Rupert Brooke
Breathless, we flung us on a windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.
We always love those who admire us; we do not always love those whom we admire.
A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.
The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.
