The great city is that which has the greatest man or woman: if it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the whole world.

He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.

That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again, this soiled world.

Sometimes with one I love, I fill myself with rage, for fear I effuse unreturn'd love; But now I think there is no unreturn'd love—the pay is certain, one way or another; (I loved a certain person ardently, and my love was not return'd; Yet out of that, I have written these songs.)

Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gathered, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, (what salutes of cannon and small arms!

The art of art... is simplicity.

Everybody is writing, writing, writing - worst of all, writing poetry. It'd be better if the whole tribe of the scribblers - every damned one of us - were sent off somewhere with tool chests to do some honest work.