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!

With a poem you can say 'I got my feeling into words for myself. I now have the equivalent in words for that much of what I have felt.'

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.

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

Turning Wearily, as one would turn to nod goodbye to Rochefoucauld, If the street were time and he as the end of the street.

Talent imitates, genius steals.

You have learned enough to see that cats are much like you and me.