Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.

We cannot tell some people what it is believe, partly because they are too stupid to understand, partly because we are too proudly vague to explain.

One age is like another for the soul.

Sentences are not different enough to hold the attention unless they are dramatic. No ingenuity of varying structure will do. All that can save them is the speaking tone of voice somehow entangled in the words and fastened to the page for the ear of the imagination. That is all that can save poetry from sing-song, all that can save prose from itself.

Hell is a half-filled auditorium.

If one by one we counted people out

Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow.