The greatest poem ever known Is one all poets have outgrown: The poetry, innate, untold, Of being only four years old.

A mind too proud to unbend over the small ridiculosa of life is as painful as a library with no trash in it.

Standing by the crib of one's own baby, with that world - old pang of compassion and protectiveness toward this so little creature that has all its course to run, the heart flies back in yearning and gratitude to those who felt just so toward one's self. Then for the first time one understands the homely succession of sacrifices and pains by which life is transmitted and fostered down the stumbling generations of men.

Being in a hurry seems so fiercely important when you yourself are the hurrier and so comically ludicrous when it is someone else.

There are a lot of people who must have the table laid in the usual fashion or they will not enjoy the dinner.

The bicycle, the bicycle surely, should always be the vehicle of novelists and poets.

There is an innate decorum in man, and it is not fair to thrust Truth upon people when they don't expect it. Only the very generous are ready for Truth impromptu.