Someday, before we all die, perhaps I shall get from home a letter in which all the news will be pleasant. I never have thus far.

This great city has fed my imagination-it has allowed me to dream.

All the critics in the world may say it's good but a man's own mother will know.

We shall not come again. We never shall come back again.

The Hudson River is like old October and tawny Indians in their camping places long ago; it is like long pipes and old tobacco; it is like cool depths and opulence; it is like the shimmer of liquid green on summer days.

He had heard an inarticulate promise: he had been pierced by Spring, that sharp knife.

All things on earth point home in old October: sailors to sea, travellers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.

In Sleep we lie all naked and alone, in Sleep we are united at the heart of night and darkness, and we are strange and beautiful asleep; for we are dying in the darkness, and we know no death.

Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?

My life is like water that has passed the mill; it turns no wheel.