The balance of private good and general welfare is at the bottom of civilized morals but the morals of the Heroic Age are founded on individuality, and on nothing else.

The Border Ballads, for instance, and the Robin Hood Ballads, clearly suppose a state of society which is nothing but a very circumscribed and not very important heroic age.

But the gravest difficulty, and perhaps the most important, in poetry meant solely for recitation, is the difficulty of achieving verbal beauty, or rather of making verbal beauty tell.

No poet will ever take the written word as a substitute for the spoken word; he knows that it is on the spoken word, and the spoken word only, that his art is founded.

How to tell students what to look for without telling them what to see is the dilemma of teaching.

The first epics were intended for recitation; the literary epic is meant to be read.

Epic poetry exhibits life in some great symbolic attitude. It cannot strictly be said to symbolize life itself, but always some manner of life.

Poetry is the work of poets, not of peoples or communities; artistic creation can never be anything but the production of an individual mind.

The world knows of a vast stock of epic material scattered up and down the nations; sometimes its artistic value is as extraordinary as its archaeological interest, but not always.

The epic poet collaborates with the spirit of his time in the composition of his work. That is, if he is successful; the time may refuse to work with him, but he may not refuse to work with his time.

That is to say, epic poetry has been invented many times and independently; but, as the needs which prompted the invention have been broadly similar, so the invention itself has been.

Another such victory over the Romans, and we are undone.

A man who rightly governs self, may also govern family without the crippling cowardice, crutch of control.

Many who are committed to reason and science have turned against religion altogether and treat it with fear and contempt.

Our house was always full of grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins.

What if God exists except it turns out he doesn't really like people very much?

What is the pattern that connects the crab to the lobster and the primrose to the orchid, and all of them to me, and me to you?

The workingmen have been exploited all the way up and down the line by employers, landlords, everybody.

Cause if you’re happy in your head, then solitude is blessed, and alone is okay.

Let us live like those who expect to die, and then we shall find that we feared death only because we were unacquainted with it.

I think I'm like wine. The older I get, the better I get.