Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.

it is as unseeing to ask what is the use of poetry as it would be to ask what is the use of religion.

The great sins and fires break out of me like the terrible leaves from the bough in the violent spring. I am a walking fire, I am all leaves.

I am one of those unhappy persons who inspire bores to the greatest flights of art.

The poet speaks to all men of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten.

I have often wished I had time to cultivate modesty... but I am too busy thinking about myself.

My poems are hymns of praise to the glory of life.