In the Augustan age ... poetry was ... the sister of architecture; with the romantics, and their heightened vowel-sense, resulting in different melodic lines, she became the sister of music; in the present day, she appears like the sister of horticulture, each poem growing according to the law of its own nature.

If one is a greyhound, why try to look like a Pekingese?

Virginia Woolf, I enjoyed talking to her, but thought nothing of her writing. I considered her 'a beautiful little knitter.

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.

I may say that I think greed about poetry is the only permissible greed - it is, indeed, unavoidable.

the arts are life accelerated and concentrated.

The public will believe anything, so long as it is not founded on truth.