The world, in its sheer exuberance of kindness, will try to bury the poet with warm and lovely human trivialities. It will even ask him to autograph books.

Religion is an attempt, a noble attempt, to suggest in human terms more-than-human realities.

Beauty is ever to the lonely mind a shadow fleeting; she is never plain. She is a visitor who leaves behind the gift of grief, the souvenir of pain.

There are certain people whom one feels almost inclined to urge to hurry up and die so that their letters can be published.

A critic is a gong at a railroad crossing clanging loudly and vainly as the train goes by.

April prepares her green traffic light and the world thinks Go.

It will be a shock to men when they realize that thoughts that were fast enough for today are not fast enough for tomorrow. But thinking tomorrow's thoughts today is one kind of future life.