The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.

Two such as you with such a master speed, cannot be parted nor be swept away, from one another once you are agreed, that life is only life forevermore, together wing to wing and oar to oar.

Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.

How many times it thundered before Franklin took the hint! How many apples fell on Newton's head before he took the hint! Nature is always hinting at us. It hints over and over again. And suddenly we take the hint.

Nothing flatters me more than to have it assumed that I could write prose, unless it be to have it assumed that I once pitched a baseball with distinction.

I always entertain great hopes.

Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.