Cast a cold eye on life, on death Horseman pass by
Do not wait to strike till the iron is hot; but make it hot by striking.
An intellectual hate is the worst.
And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.
O heart! O heart! if she'd but turn her head You'd know the folly of being comforted.
We poets would die of loneliness but for women, and we choose our men friends that we may have somebody to talk about women with. Letter to Olivia Shakespeare, 1936