What is our innocence, What is our guilt? All are naked, none is safe.
The passion for setting people right is in itself an afflictive disease.
Honesty - however dangerous - should be as valuable as radium it seems to me.
In a poem the words should be as pleasing to the ear as the meaning is to the mind.
The heart that gives, gathers.
Not till the poets among us can be "literalists of the imagination"-above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them." shall we have it.