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

The Rum Turn Tugger is a terrible bore: When you let him in, then he wants to be out; He's always on the wrong side of every door, And as soon as he's at home, then he'd like to get about.

The bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious.

We had the experience, but we missed the meaning.

A good deal of confusion could be avoided, if we refrained from setting before the group, what can be the aim only of the individual; and before society as a whole, what can be the aim only of the group.

But it seems that something has happened that has never happened before: though we know not just when, or why, or how, or where.

A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.