Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.

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

Man has survived hitherto because he was too ignorant to know how to realise his wishes- Now that he can realise them, he must either change them or perish

What "love" is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.

THESE are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.

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

A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.