On the ragged edge of the world I’ll roam. And the home of the wolf will be my home.

The Wanderlust has got me... by the belly-aching fire.

Write verse, not poetry. The public wants verse. If you have a talent for poetry, then don’t by any means mother it, but try your hand at verse.

No man can be a failure if he thinks he’s a success; If he thinks he is a winner, then he is.

Old Year! upon the Stage of Time You stand to bow your last adieu; A moment, and the prompter’s chime Will ring the curtain down on you.

The only society I like is rough and tough, and the tougher the better. There’s where you get down to bedrock and meet human people.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs With a brilliant, fitful pace, It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones Who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled, Forgets that his prime is past, Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead, In the glare of the truth at last.

I have an intense dislike for artificial society. In France, one could lead a free life – to do what one wanted to do without interference or criticism from one’s neighbors.

I like to think that when I fall, A rain-drop in Death’s shoreless sea, This shelf of books along the wall, Beside my bed, will mourn for me.

Our breath is brief, and being so Let’s make our heaven here below, And lavish kindness as we go.