Every Notion That Any Man, Dead, Living,

At All Events, I Do Not Mean To Leave It Unaltered.

Sad Hours And Glad Hours, And All Hours, Pass Over; One Thing Unshaken Stays: Life, That Hath Death For Spouse, Hath Chance For Lover; Whereby Decays, Each Thing Save One Thing: Mid This Strife Diurnal, Of Hourly Change Begot, Love That Is God-born, Bides As God Eternal, And Changes Not; Nor Means A Tinseled Dream Pursuing Lovers, Find Altered By-and-bye, When, With Possession, Time Anon Discovers, Trapped Dreams Must Die, - For He That Visions God, Of Mankind Gathers, One Manlike Trait Alone, And Reverently Imputes To Him A Father's Love For His Son.

Poetry Is Man's Rebellion Against Being What He Is.

Love, I Take It, Must Look Toward Something Not Quite Accessible, Something Not Quite Understood.

I Ask Of Literature Precisely Those Things Of Which I Feel The Lack In My Own Life.