And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?

With what cracked pitchers go we to deep wells In this world!

The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.

The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental.

What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.

World's use is cold, world's love is vain, world's cruelty is bitter bane; but is not the fruit of pain.

What is genius but the power of expressing a new individuality?