We who live in prison, and in whose lives there is no event but sorrow, have to measure time by throbs of pain, and the record of bitter moments.

I wonder that no criminal has ever pleaded the ugliness of your city as an excuse for his crimes.

The poet is the supreme artist, for he is the master of colour and of form, and the real musician besides, and is lord over all life and all arts.

A good friend will always stab you in the front.

So much had been surrendered! And to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful rejections, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose origin was fear and whose result was a degradation infinitely more terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they had sought to escape.

I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.

Life has been your art. You have set yourself to music. Your days are your sonnets.