History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.

A poem is a small machine made of words.

One thing I am convinced more and more is true, and that is this: The only way to be truly happy is to make others happy. When you realize that and take advantage of the fact, everything is made perfect.

Somewhere the sense makes copper roses steel roses — The rose carried weight of love but love is at an end — of roses It is at the edge of the petal that love waits.

For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.

Everyone in this life is defeated but a man, if he be a man, is not defeated.

It is difficult to get the news from poetry, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.