Poetry is talking on tiptoe.

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

I expect Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man.

George Eliot has the heart of Sappho; but the face, with the long proboscis, the protruding teeth of the Apocalyptic horse, betrayed animality.

A human act once set in motion flows on forever to the great account. Our deathlessness is in what we do, not in what we are.

Among the Diaries beginning with the second quarter of our century, there is frequent mention of a lady then becoming famous for her beauty and her wit: "an unusual combination," in the deliberate syllables of one of the writers, who is, however, not disposed to personal irony when speaking of her.

We never know what's in us till we stand by ourselves.