Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm.

Encased in talent like a uniform, The rank of every poet is well known; They can amaze us like a thunderstorm, Or die so young, or live for years alone.

The older lives like not to be stood in rows or at right angles.

Life is a picnic on a precipice.

It takes little talent to see what lies under one's nose, a good deal to know in what direction to point that organ.

To have a sense of sin means to feel guilty at there being an ethical choice to make, a guilt which, however "good" I may become, remains unchanged.

Man desires to be free and he desires to feel important. This places him in a dilemma, for the more he emancipates himself from necessity the less important he feels.