An improper mind is a perpetual feast.

Eat with the rich, but go to the play with the poor, who are capable of joy.

The great art of writing is the art of making people real to themselves with words.

The mere process of growing old together will make the slightest acquaintance seem a bosom friend.

But why wasn't I born, alas, in an age of Adjectives; why can one no longer write of silver-shedding Tears and moon-tailed Peacocks, of eloquent Death, of the Negro and star-enameled Night?

All our lives we are putting pennies — our most golden pennies — into penny-in-the-slot machines that are almost always empty.

We should nourish our souls on the dew of Poesy, and manure them as well.