Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor - And this, and so much more? -

There is one who remembers the way to your door: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not.

The historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of literature from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order.

Between the vision and the act lies the shadow.

In a mind charged with an eager purpose and an unfinished vindictiveness, there is no room for new feelings.

The end is in the beginning.