On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!

It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.

There is only one romance the Soul's.

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.

True love is a discipline in which each divines the secret self of the other and refuses to believe in the mere daily self.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.