“The aquilegia sprinkled on the rocks A scarlet rain; the yellow violet Sat in the chariot of its leaves, the phlox Held spikes of purple flame in meadows wet, And all the streams with vernal-scented reed Were fringed, and streaky bellow of miskodeed.”

Love is better than Fame.

Sweeter than the stolen kiss Are the granted kisses

From the desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire.

Peace the offspring is of Power.

The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.

The Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.

To learn by observation is traveling, people must also bring knowledge with them.

London has the advantage of one of the most gloomy atmospheres in the world.

Labor, you know, is prayer.

Above Coblentz almost every mountain has a ruin and a legend. One feels everywhere the spirit of the past, and its stirring recollections come back upon the mind with irresistible force.

Mock jewelry on a woman is tangible vulgarity.

Melrose is the finest remaining specimen of Gothic architecture in Scotland. Some of the sculptured flowers in the cloister arches are remarkably beautiful and delicate, and the two windows – the south and east oriels – are of a lightness and grace of execution really surprising.

The nearest approach I have ever seen to the symmetry of ancient sculpture was among the Arab tribes of Ethiopia. Our Saxon race can supply the athlete, but not the Apollo.

Pens carry further than rifled cannon.

Life lives only in success.

Who thinks, at night, that morn will ever be? Who knows, far out upon the central sea, That anywhere is land? And yet, a shore Has set behind us, and will rise before: A past foretells a future.

Before pride waves a white flag, it waves all other colors.

I saw a sunset in Queretaro that seemed to reflect the color of a rose in Bengal.

But settled things were enemies to me and soon lost their newness and color. The unknown called.

I hated myself totally white. So now I cheat. It’s my white hair, and I put color there.

So that we don’t go mad in the leisure, we have color TV. So that there will never, never, be a moment of silence, we have radio and Muzak.

What have we got here in America that we believe we cannot live without?

My friends are a crayola box. They highlight different colors of my being, representing different aspects of my personalty, I’ve noticed.

But with writers, there’s nothing wrong with melancholy. It’s an important color in writing.