Separate we come, and separate we go, And this be it known, is all that we know.

Death is never an ending, death is a change; Death is beautiful, for death is strange; Death is one dream out of another flowing.

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.

It is moonlight. Alone in the silence I ascend my stairs once more, While waves remote in pale blue starlight Crash on a white sand shore. It is moonlight. The garden is silent. I stand in my room alone. Across my wall, from the far-off moon, A rain of fire is thrown. There are houses hanging above the stars, And stars hung under the sea, And a wind from the long blue vault of time Waves my curtains for me. I wait in the dark once more, swung between space and space: Before the mirror I lift my hands And face my remembered face.

I began by doing book reviews on the typewriter and then went over to short stories on the machine, meanwhile sticking to pencil for poetry.

I really don't know enough about the structure of fiction.

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