“The days will rally, wreathingTheir crazy tarantelle;And you must go on breathing,But I'll be safe in hell.Like January weather,The years will bite and smart,And pull your bones togetherTo wrap your chattering heart.The pretty stuff you're made ofWill crack and crease and dry.The thing you are afraid ofWill look from every eye.You will go faltering afterThe bright, imperious line,And split your throat on laughter,And burn your eyes with brine.You will be frail and mustyWith peering, furtive head,Whilst I am young and lustyAmong the roaring dead.”

“Oh, seek, my love, your newer way;I'll not be left in sorrow.So long as I have yesterday,Go take your damned tomorrow!”

“Lady, lady, never startConversation toward your heart;Keep your pretty words serene;Never murmur what you mean.Show yourself, by word and look,Swift and shallow as a brook.Be as cool and quick to goAs a drop of April snow;Be as delicate and gayAs a cherry flower in May.Lady, lady, never speakOf the tears that burn your cheek-She will never win him, whoseWords had shown she feared to lose.Be you wise and never sad,You will get your lovely lad.Never serious be, nor true,And your wish will come to you-And if that makes you happy, kid,You'll be the first it ever did.”

“To keep something, you must take care of it. More, you must understand just what sort of care it requires. You must know the rules and abide by them. She could do that. She had been doing it all the months, in the writing of her letters to him. There had been rules to be learned in that matter, and the first of them was the hardest: never say to him what you want him to say to you. Never tell him how sadly you miss him, how it grows no better, how each day without him is sharper than the day before. Set down for him the gay happenings about you, bright little anecdotes, not invented, necessarily, but attractively embellished. Do not bedevil him with the pinings of your faithful heart because he is your husband, your man, your love. For you are writing to none of these. You are writing to a soldier.”

“You think You're frightening me with Your hell, don't You? You think Your hell is worse than mine.”

“There must be courage; there must be no awe. There must be criticism, for humor, to my mind, is encapsulated in criticism. There must be a disciplined eye and a wild mind...There must be a magnificent disregard of your reader, for if he cannot follow you, there is nothing you can do about it.”

“There's life for you. Spend the best years of your life studying penmanship and rhetoric and syntax and Beowulf and George Eliot, and then somebody steals your pencil.”