Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal; Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.

We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure.

There is no such thing as a dumb poet or a handless painter. The essence of an artist is that he should be articulate.

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.

On the mountains of memory by the world's wellsprings, in all man's eyes, where the light of life of him is on all past things, death only dies.

Hope knows not if fear speaks truth, nor fear whether hope be blind as she.

The sun is all about the world we see, the breath and strength of every spring.