Since the printing press came into being, poetry has ceased to be the delight of the whole community of man; it has become the amusement and delight of the few.

Success is the brand on the brow of the man who aimed too low.

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

And may we find when ended is the page, Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.

It ought to have gangsters, and aeroplanes and a lot of automatic pistols.

Humans consist of body, mind and imagination. Our bodies are faulty, our minds untrustworthy, but our imagination has made us remarkable.

Most roads lead men homewards, My road leads me forth