I love better to count time from spring to spring; it seems to me far more cheerful to reckon the year by blossoms than by blight.

There is nothing more I love more than being in a throw-down on a Saturday night.

Now when I look back to the Guildford of that time, it seems far more exotic to me than Nagasaki.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I can conduct better than I count.

The sparrow that is twittering on the edge of my balcony is calling up to me this moment a world of memories that reach over half my lifetime, and a world of hope that stretches farther than any flight of sparrows.