In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong.

Beloved, till life can charm no more; And mourned, till Pity’s self be dead.

Always mistrust a subordinate who never finds fault with his superior.

Prior to Wordsworth, humor was an essential part of poetry. I mean, they don’t call them Shakespeare comedies for nothing.

Words like feminism or democracy scare me. They are words with barnacles on them, and you can’t see what’s underneath.

When a writer becomes a reader of his or her own work, a lot can go wrong. It’s like do-it-yourself dentistry.

In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country’s wishes blest!

By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung.

I think humor is a very serious thing. I use it as a way of weakening the reader’s defenses so that I can more easily take him to something more.