Hurry Up, Please, Its Time.

The Poet's Mind Is In Fact A Receptacle For Seizing And Storing Up Numberless Feelings, Phrases, Images, Which Remain There Until All The Particles Which Can Unite To Form A New Compound Are Present Together.

The Destination Cannot Be Described; / You Will Know Very Little Until You Get There; / You Will Journey Blind.

It Seems Just Possible That A Poem Might Happen To A Very Young Man: But A Poem Is Not Poetry -that Is A Life.

The Church Must Be Forever Building, For It Is Forever Decaying Within And Attacked From Without.

Destiny Waits In The Hand Of God, Not In The Hands Of Statesmen.