You Will Find The Poet Who Wrings

... I Suppose That The Party Or Sect Which Is To Do Any Work In The World Must Breathe Its Own Peculiar Atmosphere, Speak Its Own Little Patois, And See But One Side Of The Question On Which It Fights.

No Man Surely Has So Short A Memory As The American.

One Sees That Dead, Vacant Look Steal Over The Rarest, Finest Of Women's Faces . . . In The Very Midst, It May Be, Of Their Warmest Summer's Day; And Then One Can Guess At The Secret Of Intolerable Solitude That Lies Hid Beneath The Delicate Laces . . .

Reform Is Born Of Need, Not Pity.

America May Have Great Poets And Novelists, But She Never Will Have More Than One Necromancer.