Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.

These fragments I have shored against my ruins

The eastern light our spires touch at morning, The light that slants upon our western doors at evening, The twilight over stagnant pools at batflight, Moon light and star light, owl and moth light, Glow-worm glowlight on a grassblade. O Light Invisible, we worship Thee!

If you will not have God (and He is a jealous God), you should pay your respects to Hitler or Stalin.

Some editors are failed writers, but so are most writers.

Someone said, 'The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.' Precisely, and they are that which we know.

Liberty is a different kind of pain from prison.