A black cat among roses, phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon, the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still. It is dazed with moonlight, contented with perfume.

Don’t ask a writer what he’s working on. It’s like asking someone with cancer on the progress of his disease.

I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.

A man must be sacrificed now and again to provide for the next generation of men.

Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.

When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.

Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.