He whose first emotion, on the view of an excellent work, is to undervalue or depreciate it, will never have one of his own to show.

[At a musical concert:] . . . the music's pure algebra of enchantment.

I think we've come to a kind of splinter period in poetry. These tiny little bright fragments of observation - and not produced under sufficient pressure - some of it's very skillful, but I don't think there's anywhere a discernible major poet in the process of emerging; or if he is, I ain't seen him.

We are the ghosts of the singing furies .

I think there's an enormous lot of talent around, and somewhere amongst these I'm sure that something will emerge, given time.

The one you love leans forward, smiles, deceives you, Opens a door through which you see dark dreams.

MUSIC I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread. Now that I am without you, all is desolate, All that was once so beautiful is dead. Your hands once touched this table and this silver,And I have seen your fingers hold this glass. These things do not remember you, beloved: And yet your touch upon them will not pass. For it was in my heart you moved among them,And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes.And in my heart they will remember always: They knew you once, O beautiful and wise!