Every English poet should master the rules of grammar before he attempts to bend or break them.

Love is a universal migraine. A bright stain on the vision, Blotting out reason.

There is no such thing as good writing, only good rewriting.

There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money, either.

The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he really is very good, in spite of all the people who say he is very good.

Kill if you must, but never hate: Man is but grass and hate is blight, The sun will scorch you soon or late, Die wholesome then, since you must fight

I was last in Rome in AD 540 when it was full of Goths and their heavy horses. It has changed a great deal since then.

New beginnings and new shoots Spring again from hidden roots Pull or stab or cut or burn, Love must ever yet return.

What we now call "finance" is, I hold, an intellectual perversion of what began as warm human love.

I was thinking, "So, I’m Emperor, am I? What nonsense! But at least I'll be able to make people read my books now.

One smile relieves a heart that grieves.

The sword of the scripture.

For my part, I think that the mystery is always greatest where there is the most - emptiness.

The idea isn't to do the impossible. The idea is to show the world that if one man can do the impossible, then maybe the rest of the world can do what's possible.

People never improve unless they look to some standard or example higher and better than themselves.

I feel that it is our moral obligation to stand and to be courageous with these families, and particularly Cindy, that have become the conscience of this nation.

I've noticed over my 22 years of living that, yes, women can be difficult, and I call myself a ladies' man, thinking I have them figured out. But as men, we will never understand women.

What the artist owes the world is his work; not a model for living.

When riches begin to come they come so quickly, in such great abundance, that one wonders where they have been hiding during all those lean years.

It was hopeless, life, really. It was set up all wrong.

A thrush, because I'd been wrong, Burst rightly into song In a world not vague, not lonely, Not governed by me only.