Is it the lumberman, then, who is the friend and lover of the pine, stands nearest to it, and understands its nature best? Is it the tanner who has barked it, or he who has boxed it for turpentine, whom posterity will fable to have been changed into a pine at last? No! no! it is the poet: he it is who makes the truest use of the pine-who does not fondle it with an axe, nor tickle it with a saw, nor stroke it with a plane. . . .

No man ever followed his genius till it misled him.

Our molting season, like that of the fouls, must be a crisis in our lives.

It is difficult to begin without borrowing, but perhaps it is the most generous course thus to permit your fellowmen to have an interest in your enterprise.

Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still.

If you indulge in long periods, you must be sure to have a snapper at the end.

I have great faith in a seed.