Grammar is the analysis of language.

Boston: Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good.

True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will say that I am mad?! The disease had haunted my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Of all the sense of hearing acute.

The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night.

With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.

Most writers - poets in especial - prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy - an ecstatic intuition - and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes.