Blessed is the man, who having nothing to say, abstains from giving wordy evidence of the fact.

In spite of his practical ability, some of his experience had petrified into maxims and quotations.

I have the conviction that excessive literary production is a social offence.

I love words; they are the quoits, the bows, the staves that furnish the gymnasium of the mind.

You must love your work and not always be looking over the edge of it wanting your play to begin.

It is not true that love makes all things easy; it makes us choose what is difficult.

How should all the apparatus of heaven and earth make poetry for a mind that had no movements of awe and tenderness, no sense of fellowship which thrills from the near to the distant, and back again from the distant to the near?