I never saw a wild thing / Sorry for itself. / A small bird will drop frozen dead / From a bough / Without ever having felt sorry for itself.

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration / Of green fires lit on the soil of earth, this blaze / Of growing, these smoke-puffs that puff in wild gyration, / Faces of people blowing across my gaze!

I prefer unlucky things. Luck is vulgar. Who wants what luck would bring? I don't.

Life is beautiful, so long as it consuming you. When it is rushing through you, destroying you, life is gorgeous, glorious. It is best to roar away, like a fire with a great draught, white hot to the last bit. It's when you burn a slow fire and save fuel that life's not worth having.

Myth is a powerful medium because it talks to the emotions and not the head. It moves us into an area of mystery.

The flood subsides, and the body, like a worn sea-shellemerges strange and lovely.

The tiny fish enjoy themselves in the sea.

The great pagan world of which Egypt and Greece were the last living terms once had a vast and perhaps perfect science of its own, a science in terms of life. In our era this science crumbled into magic and charlatanry. But even wisdom crumbles.

Conscience was chiefly fear of society, or fear of oneself.

Tragedy is like strong acid it dissolves away all but the very gold of truth.