Her coming was my hope each day, Her parting was my pain; The chance that did her steps delay Was ice in every vein.

Say whatever your memory suggests is true; but add nothing and exaggerate nothing.

Let your performance do the thinking.

Youth has its romance, and maturity its wisdom, as morning and spring have their freshness, noon and summer their power, night and winter their repose. Each attribute is good in its own season.

Writers cannot choose their own mood: with them it is not always hide-tide, nor --thank Heaven!--always Storm.

Fortune is proverbially called changeful, yet her caprice often takes the form of repeating again and again a similar stroke of luck in the same quarter.

But this I know; the writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master--something that at times strangely wills and works for itself. He may lay down rules and devise principles, and to rules and principles it will perhaps for years lie in subjection; and then, haply without any warning of revolt, there comes a time when it will no longer consent.