Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.

There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

Houses - the dark side silhouetted on flashes of moonlight!

In summer, the song sings itself.

But time in only another liar, so go along the wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there'll be mushrooms, fairy-ring mushrooms in the grass, sweetest of all fungi.

The American idiom has much to offer us that the English language has never heard of

A poem is a small machine made out of words.