Patriotism is the religion of hell.

Poetry is man's rebellion against being what he is.

Good and evil keep very exact accounts... and the face of every man is their ledger.

I have followed after the truth, across this windy planet upon which every person is nourished by one or another lie.

There is no escaping, at times, the gloomy suspicion that fiddling with pens and ink is, after all, no fit employment for a grown man.

Love, I take it, must look toward something not quite accessible, something not quite understood.

Sad hours and glad hours, and all hours, pass over; One thing unshaken stays: Life, that hath Death for spouse, hath Chance for lover; Whereby decays, Each thing save one thing: mid this strife diurnal, Of hourly change begot, Love that is God-born, bides as God eternal, And changes not; Nor means a tinseled dream pursuing lovers, Find altered by-and-bye, When, with possession, time anon discovers, Trapped dreams must die, - For he that visions God, of mankind gathers, One manlike trait alone, And reverently imputes to Him a father's love for his son.