The stripped and shapely Maple grieves The ghosts of her Departed leaves. The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The year is old, The birds are flown.

The guarantee that our self enjoys an intended relation to the outer world is most, if not all, we ask from religion. God is the self projected onto reality by our natural and necessary optimism. He is the not-me personified.

It is in middles that extremes clash, where ambiguity restlessly rules.

It’s spring! Farewell To chills and colds! The blushing, girlish World unfolds Each flower, leaf And blade of sod— Small letters sent To her from God.

Existence itself does not feel horrible; it feels like an ecstasy, rather, which we have only to be still to experience.

It's a man's world, they say; but in its daily textures it is a world created by and for women.

The artist brings something into the world that didn't exist before, and he does it without destroying something else.