Tell no man anything, for no man listens Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.

Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?

I decided I would go to Chicago and try my luck as a writer after those eight months as a fireman.

His books were part of him. Each year of his life, it seemed, his books became more and more a part of him. This room, thirty by twenty feet, and the walls of shelves filled with books, had for him the murmuring of many voices. In the books of Herodotus, Tacitus, Rabelais, Thomas Browne, John Milton, and scores of others, he had found men of face and voice more real to him than many a man he had met for a smoke and a talk.

I glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all.

Lips half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hours And the farmers make half-answers.

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.