Jealousy is love bed of burning snarl.

The man who has no mind of his own lends it to the priests.

On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose, Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend . . . He reached a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

Poetry is talking on tiptoe.

Chance works for us when we are good captains.

The season of love is the carnival of egoism and it brings a touchstone to our natures.

The man or country that fights priestcraft and priests is to my mind striking deeper for freedom than can be struck anywhere.