Metaphor is no argument, though it be sometimes the gunpowder to drive one home, and imbed it in the memory.

If we see light at the end of the tunnel, it's the light of the oncoming train.

If God made poets for anything, it was to keep alive the traditions of the pure, the holy, and the beautiful.

Time is, after all, the greatest of poets; and the sons of Memory stand a better chance of being the heirs of Fame.

Against the windows the storm comes dashing, Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing, The blue lightning flashes, The rapid hail clashes... The thunder is rumbling And crashing and crumbling.

I have always been of the mind that in a democracy manners are the only effective weapons against the bowie-knife.

It is only the intellect that can be thoroughly and hideously wicked. It can forget everything in the attainment of its ends. The heart recoils; in its retired some drops of childhood's dew still linger, defying manhood's fiery noon.