Not till the poets among us can be "literalists of the imagination"-above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them." shall we have it.
We prove, we do not explain, our birth.
We are what we were at birth, and each trait has remained in conformity with earth's and with heaven's logic: Be the devil's tool, resort to black magic, None can diverge from the ends which Heaven foreordained.
[The] whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so much confusion.
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea; the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
The Irish say your trouble is their trouble and your joy their joy? I wish I could believe it; I am troubled, I'm dissatisfied, I'm Irish.
My father used to say, "Superior people never make long visits, have to be shown Longfellows grave, or the glass flowers at Harvard."
Among animals, one has a sense of humor. Humor saves a few steps, it saves years.
Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting and baseball is like writing. You can never tell with either how it will go.
I wonder what Adam and Eve think of it by this time.
A man is a writer if all his words are strung in definite sentence sounds.
We don't like flowers that do not wilt; they must die, and nine she-camel hairs aid memory.
If we can't be cordial to these creatures' fleece, I think that we deserve to freeze.
Men are monopolists of "stars, garters, buttons and other shining baubles"- unfit to be the guardians of another person's happiness.
The self does not realize itself most fully when self-realization is its most constant aim.
Does it follow that because there are poisonous toadstools which resemble mushrooms, both are dangerous?
What I write could only be called poetry because there is no other category to put it.
I, too, dislike it. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it, after all, a place for the genuine.
The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, "Again the sun! anew each day; and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul."
There is no pleasure subtler than the sensation of being a good workman; and in work there is the sense of consanguinity-unconscious as a rule but sometimes conscious.
At all events there is in Brooklyn something that makes me feel at home.
The weak overcomes its/ menace, the strong over-/comes itself.
Concurring hands divide flax for damask that when bleached by Irish weather has the silvered chamois-leather water-tightness of a skin.
Yule—Yul log for the Christmas-fire tale-spinner—of fairy tales that can come true: Yul Brynner.
Assign Yogi Berra to Cape Canaveral; he could handle any missile.
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