The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel- Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such. The bee, his hive, Well-honeyed hum, And Mother cuts Chrysanthemums. Like plates washed clean With suds, the days Are polished with A morning haze.

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

The measure of artistic merit is the length to which a writer is willing to go in following his own compulsions.

Accent the ugly until it becomes gorgeous.

A writer's self-consciousness, for which he is much scorned, is really a mode of interestedness, that inevitably turns outward.

There is no pleasing New Englanders, my dear, their soil is all rocks and their hearts are bloodless absolutes.

All love is betrayal, in that it flatters life. The loveless man is best armed.