Utter originality is, of course, out of the question.

The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet black bough.

Science is unpoetic only to minds jaundiced with sentiment and romanticism . . . the great masters of the past boasted all they could of it and found it magical.

The modern artist must live by craft and violence. His gods are violent gods. Those artists, so called, whose work does not show this strife, are uninteresting.

Fundamental accuracy of statement is the ONE sole morality of writing.

It is difficult to write a paradiso when all the superficial indications are that you ought to write an apocalypse.

Haie! Haie! These were the swift to harry; These the keen-scented; These were the souls of blood. Slow on the leash, pallid the leash-men!