I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal. The shallowest people on the ridge of the earth.

No art can conquer the people alone-the people are conquered by an ideal of life upheld by authority.

What shall I do with this absurdity- O heart, O troubled heart-this caricature, Decrepit age that has been tied to me As to a dog's tail? Never had I more Excited, passionate, fantastical Imagination, nor an ear and eye That more expected the impossible.

One should not lose one's temper unless one is certain of getting more and more angry to the end.

I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.

What made us dream that he could comb gray hair?

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.