The myriad choices of his fateSet themselves out upon a plateFor him to chooseWhat had he to lose

It's a breath you took too late.It's a death that's worse than fate.

Here, also, the future was cried aloud by the wind through the rocks, so that all those who heard would shiver, and then the liquid spring song of the thrush would make all the beauty of moonlight and sunlight blend together, making it true, so true, that happiness must come again

We should get jerseys, cause we make a good team; but yours would look better than mine, cause you're outta my league.

If life throws you a few bad notes or vibrations, don't let them interrupt or alter your song.

As long as music survives, poetry will never die.