I cry. Evil dissolves, & love, like foam; that love. Prattle of children powers me home, my heart claps like the swan's under a frenzy of who love me & who shine.

This world is gradually becoming a place Where I do not care to be any more.

That is our ‘pointed task. Love & die.

We must travel in the direction of our fear.

The artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him. At that point, he's in business.

I didn't want to be like Yeats; I wanted to be Yeats.

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.