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

No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.

At midnight tears Run into your ears.

I don't like quintessential certitude.

It is almost impossible for the poetess, once laurelled, to take off the crown for good or to reject values and taste of those who tender it.

I'll lie here and learn How, over their ground, Trees make a long shadow And a light sound.

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.