Bad Poets Imitate, Good Poets Steal.

History May Be Servitude. History May Be Freedom. See, Now They Vanish. The Faces And Places, With The Self Which, As It Could, Loved Them, To Become Renewed, Transfigured, In Another Pattern.

To Country People Cows Are Mild, And Flee From Any Stick They Throw; But I’m A Timid Town Bred Child, And All The Cattle Seem To Know.

The Work Of Creation Is Never Without Travail.

So The Lover Must Struggle For Words.

Mediocre Writers Borrow; Great Writers Steal.