Speak But One Word To Me.

No Man Is Good Enough To Be Another's Master.

That Talk Of Inspiration Is Sheer Nonsense; There Is No Such Thing. It Is A Mere Matter Of Craftsmanship.

Simplicity Of Life, Even The Barest, Is Not A Misery, But The Very Foundation Of Refinement.

O Thrush, Your Song Is Passing Sweet, But Never A Song That You Have Sung Is Half So Sweet As Thrushes Sang When My Dear Love And I Were Young.

Yea, I Have Looked, And Seen November There; The Changeless Seal Of Change It Seemed To Be, Fair Death Of Things That, Living Once, Were Fair; Bright Sign Of Loneliness Too Great For Me, Strange Image Of The Dread Eternity, In Whose Void Patience How Can These Have Part, These Outstretched Feverish Hands, This Restless Heart?