The world is full of willing people; some willing to work, the rest willing to let them.

If you don't know how great this country is, I know someone who does; Russia.

For, dear me, why abandon a belief, Merely because it ceases to be true, Cling to it long enough, and not a doubt, It will turn true again, for so it goes.

Poetry is the renewal of words, setting them free, and that's what a poet is doing: loosening the words.

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.

Heaven gives its glimpses only to those not in position to look too close.

So when at times the mob is swayed To carry praise or blame too far, We may choose something like a star To stay our minds on and be staid.