When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.

My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.

Mock mockers after that That would not lift a hand maybe To help good, wise or great To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery.

I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.

Literature is always personal, always one man's vision of the world, one man's experience, and it can only be popular when men are ready to welcome the visions of others.

Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labour of its unfamiliar thought.

What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.