“I have no desire to dress up my poetry and make it fancy.”

That’s my only concern. Everything else seems wrong.

I want the poem to be as true as humanly possible to the feeling that inspired it.

Suffering belongs to no language.

Destiny doesn’t exist. It’s God we need, and fast.

On this shrunken globe, men can no longer live as strangers.

Were a man to order his life by the rules of true reason, a frugal substance joined to a contented mind is for him great riches; for never is there any lack of a little.

These the senses we trust, first, last, and always.

Life is too short to do something you don’t want to do.

Various are the uses of friends, beyond all else in difficulty, but joy also looks for trust that is clear in the eyes.

Nothing is more wretched than the mind of a man conscious of guilt.

It’s easier to avoid the snares of love than to escape once you are in that net.

He who labors diligently need never despair for all things are accomplished by diligence and labor.