The cynics in life are the people who are always trying to do things for people who don't want things done for them.

The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, "Again the sun! anew each day; and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul."

The sweet air coming into your house on a fine day, from water etched with waves as formal as the scales on a fish.

I see no reason for calling my work poetry except that there is no other category in which to put it.

[The] whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so much confusion.

Impatience is the mark of independence, not of bondage.

Omissions are not accidents.