And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Words alone are certain good.