There Is No Love. There's Only Love

And Were An Epitaph To Be My Story I'd Have A Short One Ready For My Own. I Would Have Written Of Me On My Stone: I Had A Lover's Quarrel With The World.

'warm In December, Cold In June, You Say?' I Don't Suppose The Water's Changed At All. You And I Know Enough To Know It's Warm Compared With Cold, And Cold Compared With Warm. But All The Fun's In How You Say A Thing.

Hope Is Not Found In A Way Out But A Way Through.

It's Hard To Get Into This World And Hard To Get Out Of It, And What's In Between Doesn't Make Much Sense.

Ends And Beginnings—there Are No Such Things. There Are Only Middles.