“Take it, and turn to facts my fantasies.”

“A kiss is a secret which takes the lips for the ear.”

“Well when I write my book, and tell the tale of my adventures--all these little stars that shake out of my cloak-- I must save those to use for asterisks!”

“What would you have me do? Seek for the patronage of some great man,And like a creeping vine on a tall treeCrawl upward, where I cannot stand alone?No thank you! Dedicate, as others do,Poems to pawnbrokers? Be a buffoonIn the vile hope of teasing out a smileOn some cold face? No thank you! Eat a toadFor breakfast every morning? Make my kneesCallous, and cultivate a supple spine,-Wear out my belly grovelling in the dust?No thank you! Scratch the back of any swineThat roots up gold for me? Tickle the hornsOf Mammon with my left hand, while my rightToo proud to know his partner's business,Takes in the fee? No thank you! Use the fireGod gave me to burn incense all day longUnder the nose of wood and stone? No thank you!Shall I go leaping into ladies' lapsAnd licking fingers?-or-to change the form-Navigating with madrigals for oars,My sails full of the sighs of dowagers?No thank you! Publish verses at my ownExpense? No thank you! Be the patron saintOf a small group of literary soulsWho dine together every Tuesday? NoI thank you! Shall I labor night and dayTo build a reputation on one song,And never write another? Shall I findTrue genius only among Geniuses,Palpitate over little paragraphs,And struggle to insinuate my nameIn the columns of the Mercury?No thank you! Calculate, scheme, be afraid,Love more to make a visit than a poem,Seek introductions, favors, influences?-No thank you! No, I thank you! And againI thank you!-But...To sing, to laugh, to dreamTo walk in my own way and be alone,Free, with a voice that means manhood-to cock my hatWhere I choose-At a word, a Yes, a No, To fight-or write.To travel any roadUnder the sun, under the stars, nor doubtIf fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne-Never to make a line I have not heardIn my own heart; yet, with all modestyTo say:"My soul, be satisfied with flowers,With fruit, with weeds even; but gather themIn the one garden you may call your own."So, when I win some triumph, by some chance,Render no share to Caesar-in a word,I am too proud to be a parasite,And if my nature wants the germ that growsTowering to heaven like the mountain pine,Or like the oak, sheltering multitudes-I stand, not high it may be-but alone!”

“I sing, not to hear the echo repeat, a shade fainter, my song! I think of light and not of glory! Singing is my fashion of waging war and bearing witness. And if my song is the proudest of songs, it is that I sing clearly to make the day rise clear!”

“All my laurels you have riven away, and my roses; yet in spite of you, there is one crown I bear away with me... One thing without stain, unspotted from the world, in spite of doom mine own! And that is... my white plume.”

“My heart always timidly hides itself behind my mind. I set out to bring down stars from the sky, then, for fear of ridicule, I stop and pick little flowers of eloquence.”