Psychology which explains everything explains nothing, and we are still in doubt.

It is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment without having a critic, forever, like the old man of the sea, upon his back.

Hate-hardened heart, O heart of iron, iron is iron till it is rust. There never was a war that was not inward;.

The hands are the heart’s messengers.

Not till the poets among us can be “literalists of the imagination”-above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, “imaginary gardens with real toads in them.” shall we have it.

My father used to say, “Superior people never make long visits, have to be shown Longfellows grave, or the glass flowers at Harvard.”

We don’t like flowers that do not wilt; they must die, and nine she-camel hairs aid memory.

Honesty – however dangerous – should be as valuable as radium it seems to me...

You’re not free until you’ve been made captive by supreme belief.

The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, “Again the sun! anew each day; and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul.”