Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections, Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling, Or just after.

After the final no there comes a yes and on that yes the future of the world hangs.

The day of the sun is like the day of a king. It is a promenade in the morning, a sitting on the throne at noon, a pageant in the evening.

In the world of words, the imagination is one of the forces of nature.

Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it is found, whether the poem, the manner of a god, the bearing of a man. It is not a dress.