Poetry, that is to say the poetic, is a primal necessity.
Impatience is the mark of independence, not of bondage.
[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.
We are suffering from too much sarcasm.
As contagion of sickness makes sickness, contagion of trust can make trust.
There never was a war that was not inward; I must fight till I have conquered in myself what causes war.