The tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog; not though in that stage of development he should puff and blow himself till he bursts with windy adulation at the heels of the laureled ox.

Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last.

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

To have read the greatest works of any great poet, to have beheld or heard the greatest works of any great painter or musician, is a possession added to the best things of life.

Faith speaks when hope is disassembled; faith lives when hope dies dead.

The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.

Thou has conquered, O pale Galilean.