What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?

In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

The faces of most American women over thirty are relief maps of petulant and bewildered unhappiness.

In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o' clock in the morning, day after day.

An author ought to write for the youth of his own generation, the critics of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterwards.

For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.