Revision is its own reward.

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."

I believe verbal felicity is the fruit of ardor, of diligence, and of refusing to be false.

... imaginary gardens with real toads in them ... ... if you demand on one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, then you are interested in poetry.

Beauty is everlasting And dust is for a time.

Egotism is usually subversive of sagacity.

I am hard to disgust, but a pretentious poet can do it