At midnight tears Run into your ears.

I hope that one or two immortal lyrics will come out of all this tumbling around.

Poetry is often generations in advance of the thought of its time.

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

Innocence of heart and violence of feeling are necessary in any kind of superior achievement: The arts cannot exist without them.

Hate does not present many choices; if hate is your solution, you are fairly certain to hate all phemonena with equal joy and intensity, without troubling to drag into prominence any one feature from the loathsome whole.

...in a time lacking in truth and certainty and filled with anguish and despair, no woman should be shamefaced in attempting to give back to the world, through her work, a portion of its lost heart.