A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet.

Fear that makes faith may break faith.

The delight that consumes the desire, The desire that outruns the delight.

Sorrow, on wing through the world for ever, Here and there for awhile would borrow Rest, if rest might haply deliver Sorrow.

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 highest spiritual quality, the noblest property of mind a man can have, is this of loyalty.

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.