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.

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

Remorse is a virtue in that it is a stirrer up of the emotions but it is a folly to accept it is a criticism of conduct.

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.

That which is possible is inevitable.

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

A poem is a small machine made of words.