Many times man lives and dies between his two eternities: that of race and that of Soul... A brief parting from those dear is the worst man has to fear... Though grave diggers' toil is long... They but thrust their buried men back in the human mind again.

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.

We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.

Nothing that we love overmuch Is ponderable to our touch.

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

For how can you compete Being honour bred, with one Who, were it proved he lies, Were neither shamed in his own Nor in his neighbour's eyes?

Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.