it seems a silly kind o' business to bring us into the world at all for no special reason 'cept to take us out of it again just as folks 'ave learned to know us a bit and find us useful.

If we choose to be no more than clods of clay, then we shall be used as clods of clay for braver feet to tread on.

A fine morning's killing, ay! All their necks wrung - all dead birds! Once they could fly - fly and swim! Fly and swim! All dead now - and sold cheap in the open market!

The Press nowadays is not a literary press; classic diction and brilliancy of style do not distinguish it by any means.

Great Poets discover themselves. Little Poets have to be 'discovered' by somebody else.

There is no wealth but love.

nobody ever intends to be old.