And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

A good essay must have this permanent quality about it; it must draw its curtain round us, but it must be a curtain that shuts us in not out.

Once conform, once do what other people do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul. She becomes all outer show and inward emptiness; dull, callous, and indifferent.

Women have served all these centuries as looking glasses possessing the power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.

Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.