It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time.

The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.

Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.

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.

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

O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.

History must stay open, it is all humanity.