Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.

Tomorrow, more's the pity, Away we both must hie, To air the ditty and to earth I.

There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.

I do not choose the right word, I get rid of the wrong one.

When the journey's over/There'll be time enough to sleep.

In every American there is an air of incorrigible innocence, which seems to conceal a diabolical cunning.

Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.