“Art remains the one way possible of speaking truth.”

Rejoice that man is hurled, From change to change unceasingly, His soul’s wings never furled!

As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.

You call for faith: I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, If faith o’ercomes doubt.

Grow old with me. The best is yet to be. The last of life for which the first was made.

To do good things in the world, first you must know who you are and what gives meaning to your life.

Why stay on the earth except to grow.

Ah, love, – you are my unutterable blessing…..I am in full sunshine now.

Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.

I walked a mile with Pleasure; She chattered all the way. But left me none the wiser For all she had to say. I walked a mile with Sorrow And ne’er a word said she; But oh, the things I learned from her When Sorrow walked with me!

There are three ways of learning golf: by study, which is the most wearisome; by imitation, which is the most fallacious; and by experience, which is the most bitter.

Motherhood: All love begins and ends there.

Love, hope, fear, faith – these make humanity; These are its sign and note and character.

Escape me? Never, beloved! While I am I, and you are you.

A pretty woman’s worth some pains to see.

Who knows most, doubts most; entertaining hope means recognizing fear.

What’s a man’s age? He must hurry more, that’s all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold.

In my mind, I see a line. And over that line, I see green fields and lovely flowers and beautiful, white women with their arms stretched out to me over that line, but I can’t seem to get there now. I can’t seem to get over that line.

No person learned the art of archery from me, who did not in the end make me his target.

All art is propaganda. It is universally and inescabably propaganda; sometimes unconsciously, but often deliberately, propaganda.

The proletarian writer is a writer with a purpose; he thinks no more of art for art’s sake than a man on a sinking ship thinks of painting a beautiful picture in the cabin; he thinks of getting ashore – and then there will be time enough for art.

Turn your scars into stars.

But I am just a poet who makes art out of broken people.

The negative is comparable to the composer’s score and the print to its performance. Each performance differs in subtle ways.

Music is a fair and glorious gift of God. I am strongly persuaded that after theology, there is no art which can be placed on the level with music.