...the wonderful poems interpreting with equal magic the romance of strange lands and times, or the modern soul, naked and unashamed, as if clothed in its own complexity; the humorous-tragic questionings of the universe; the delicious travel-pictures and fantasies; the lucid criticisms of art, and politics, and philosophy, informed with malicious wisdom, shimmering with poetry and wit.

The Past: Our cradle, not our prison; there is danger as well as appeal in its glamour. The past is for inspiration, not imitation, for continuation, not repetition.

Dead men hear no tales; posthumous fame is an Irish bull.

[T]he German censorship forbade or mutilated my every book, which was like sticking pins into my soul.

I hate French poetry. What measured glitter!

O God... make me a child again, even before I die; give me back the simple faith, the clear vision of the child that holds its father's hand.

You cannot be anything if you want to be everything. But if you are content to be something, you may by analogy be many things.