He lives most life whoever breathes most air.

If we tried To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure The future would not stand.

Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.

God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame.

The plague of gold strikes far and near.

What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?

My love for him was so exquisitely pure that if we all were capable of giving and receiving such a beautiful gift the world would be a far more brilliant place; I think we'd all be poets.