Still falls the rain - dark as the world of man, black as our loss - blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails upon the Cross.

The poet speaks to all men of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten.

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.

My personal hobbies are reading, listening to music, and silence.

As for the usefulness of poetry, its uses are many. It is the deification of reality. It should make our days holy to us. The poet should speak to all men, for a moment, of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten.

I'm dying, but otherwise I'm in very good health.

Art is magic, not logic. This craze for the logical spirit in irrational shape is part of the present harmful mania for uniformity.