There are dreams stronger than death. Men and women die holding these dreams.

Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.

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.

Freedom is baffling: men having it often know not they have it till it is gone and they no longer have it.

Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong and the final decisions are made in silent rooms. Tell him to be different from other people if it comes natural and easy being different. Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives. Let him seek deep for where he is a born natural. Then he may understand Shakespeare and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov, Michael Faraday and free imaginations Bringing changes into a world resenting change. He will be lonely enough to have time for the work he knows as his own.

I have written some poetry that I don't understand myself.