It takes so many years to learn that one is dead.

A prose that is altogether alive demands something of the reader that the ordinary novel reader is not prepared to give.

Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.

Poetry should help, not only to refine the language of the time, but to prevent it from changing too rapidly.

An election is coming. Universal peace is declared and the foxes have a sincere interest in prolonging the lives of the poultry.

Composing on the typewriter, I find that I am sloughing off all my long sentences which I used to dote upon. Short, staccato, like modern French prose. The typewriter makes for lucidity, but I am not sure that it encourages subtlety.

The majority of poems one outgrows and outlives, as one outgrows and outlives the majority of human passions.