An unmanly sort of man whose love life seems to have been largely confined to crying in laps and playing mouse.

Rhymes, meters, stanza forms, etc., are like servants. If the master is fair enough to win their affection and firm enough to command their respect, the result is an orderly happy household. If he is too tyrannical, they give notice; if he lacks authority, they become slovenly, impertinent, drunk and dishonest.

A god who is both self-sufficient and content to remain so could not interest us enough to raise the question of his existence.

Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle.

Nobody knows what the cause is, though some pretend they do; it like some hidden assassin waiting to strike at you. Childless women get it, and men when they retire; it as if there had to be some outlet for their foiled creative fire.

A poet can write about a man slaying a dragon, but not about a man pushing a button that releases a bomb.

In relation to a writer, most readers believe in the Double Standard: they may be unfaithful to him as often as they like, but he must never, never be unfaithful to them.