About the trees my arms I wound; Like one going mad I hugged the ground; I raised my quivering arms on high; I laughed and laughed into the sky. - Edna St. Vincent Millay

There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, — so with his memory they brim!
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, 'There is no memory of him here!'
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

The only people I really hate are servants. They are not really human beings at all. As attributed without citation in At Home by Bill Bryson, Chapter V, "The Scullery and the Larder" p. 111

This book, when I am dead, will be
A little faint perfume of me.
People who knew me well will say,
She really used to think that way.