The artist is always beginning. Any work of art which is not a beginning, an invention, a discovery is of little worth.

The rustling of the silk is discontinued, Dust drifts over the courtyard, There is not sound of footfall, and the leaves Scurry into heaps and lie still, And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them: A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.

In verse one can take any damn constant one likes, one can alliterate, or assone, or rhyme, or quant, or smack, only one MUST leave the other elements irregular.

I found after seventy years that I was not a lunatic but a moron.... I should have been able to do better.

Utter originality is, of course, out of the question.

Compose in the sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of a metronome.

where the dead walked and the living were made of cardboard.