I have not much interest in anyone's personal history after the tenth year, not even my own. Whatever one was going to be was all prepared before that.

There are so many things that we are capable of, that we could be or do. The potentialities are so great that we never, any of us, are more than one-fourth fulfilled.

Childhood is the fiery furnace in which we are melted down to essentials and that essential shaped for good.

With the most infinite tenderness I have ever known in my life, he put his arms around me, gently, gently, and I embraced him around the neck, and we touched.

I was right not to be afraid of any thief but myself, who will end by leaving me nothing.

. . . all that she had had, and all that she had missed, were lost together, and were twice lost in this landslide of remembered losses.

No man can be explained by his personal history, least of all a poet.