Commonplace people dislike tragedy because they dare not suffer and cannot exult.

The luck will alter and the star will rise.

In the power and splendor of the universe, inspiration waits for the millions to come. Man has only to strive for it. Poems greater than the Iliad, plays greater than Macbeth, stories more engaging than Don Quixote await their seeker and finder.

Poetry is a mixture of common sense, which not all have, with an uncommon sense, which very few have.

To most of us the future seems unsure. But then it always has been; and we who have seen great changes must have great hopes.

So death obscures your gentle form, So memory strives to make the darkness bright; And, in that heap of rocks, your body lies, Part of the island till the planet ends, My gentle comrade, beautiful and wise, Part of this crag this bitter surge offends, While I, who pass, a little obscure thing, War with this force, and breathe, and am its king.

My road leads me seawards To the white dipping sails.