Winter Song The browns, the olives, and the yellows died, And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide, And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed, Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed. From off your face, into the winds of winter, The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing; But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter, When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing, And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.

All a poet can do today is warn.

Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by studying to be pleased do we understand them.

The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.

Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.