The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.

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

Most of the beauties of travel are due to the strange hours we keep to see them

When I am alone I am happy.

It was the love of love, the love of swallows up all else, a grateful love, a love of natural, of people, of animals, a love ingengering gentleness and goodness that moved meand that I saw in you

The poem springs from the half spoken words of the patient.... When asked, how I have for so many years continued an equal interest in medicine and the poem, I reply that they amount for me to nearly the same thing.

But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.