Why do men think you can pick love up and re-light it like a candle? Women know when love is over.

Rhianon, he said, hold my hand, Rhianon. She did not hear him, but stood over his bed and fixed him with an unbroken sorrow. Hold my hand, he said, and then: why are your putting the sheet over my face?

My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.

I do not need any friends. I prefer enemies. They are better company and their feelings towards you are always genuine.

Life always offers you a second chance. is called tomorrow.

In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms, I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart. Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon I write On these spindrift pages Nor for the towering dead With their nightingales and psalms But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, Who pay no praise or wages Nor heed my craft or art.

The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it.