Even when the poet seems most himself . . . he is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast; he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.

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

Things thought too long can be no longer thought, For beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth, And ancient lineaments are blotted out.

People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.

The only enemy of innocence and beauty is time.

Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.