A verbal art like poetry is reflective; it stops to think. Music is immediate, it goes on to become.

The eye likes novelty, but the ear craves familiarity.

Money cannot buy the fuel of love but is excellent kindling.

Slavery is so intolerable a condition that the slave can hardly escape deluding himself into thinking that he is choosing to obey his master's commands when, in fact, he is obliged to. Most slaves of habit suffer from this delusion and so do some writers, enslaved by an all too personal style.

The poet marries the language, and out of this marriage the poem is born.

There is a great deal of difference in believing something still, and believing it again.

To save your world you asked this man to die; would this man, could he see you now, ask why?