There can be no proof that Blake's lyric is composed of the best words in the best order; only a conviction, accepted by our knowledge and judgment, that it is so.

When you defile the pleasant streams, And the wild bird's abiding place, You massacre a million dreams, And cast your spittle in God's face

For while the subjects of poetry are few and recurrent, the moods of man are infinitely various and unstable. It is the same in all arts.

Poetry being the sign of that which all men desire, even though the desire be unconscious, intensity of life or completeness of experience, the universality of its appeal is a matter of course.

If it is an imperfect word, no external circumstance can heighten its value as poetry.

Poetry is the communication through words of certain experiences that can be communicated in no other way.

To know anything of a poet but his poetry is, so far as the poetry is concerned, to know something that may be entertaining, even delightful, but is certainly inessential.

But in the finished art of the song the use of words has no connection with the use of words in poetry.

This be my pilgrimage and goal Daily to march and find The secret phrases of the soul, The evangels of the mind.

In the corridors under tehre is nothing but sleep. And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keep Tryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deep On moon-washed apples of wonder.

When the poet makes his perfect selection of a word, he is endowing the word with life.

Love, love, love, says Percy.And hurry as fast as you canalong the shining beach, or the rubble, or the dust.Then, go to sleep.Give up your body heat, your beating heart.Then, trust.

I don't want to see myself as this sad, disabled girl. I know that. I don't want other people to see me as that, either.

I have no evidence of any relationship between IRS and NSA.

Politicians are addicted to spending and revenue extraction. As with an addict, there's little pause for moral or legal contemplation.

Sometimes a slow gradual approach does more good than a large gesture.

My sister has the heart of an artist with a hatchet and an eye patch. And I, we both now know, have a heart that is undeniably, irreparably different.

If I had inherited a fortune I should probably not have cast my lot with mathematics.

What's the big deal about still working? Retirement age is sixty-five, and that's at a normal job - and I ain't there yet.

A competitor is a valuable foil that unites a company from within and pushes the brand's boundaries.

I read one or two other books which gave me a background in mathematics other than logic.