Each age, each guilty age, builds high walls around its Versailles; and personally I hate those walls most when they are made by literature and art.

In some mysterious way woods have never seemed to me to be static things. In physical terms, I move through them; yet in metaphysical ones, they seem to move through me.

That was the tragedy. Not that one man had the courage to be evil. But that millions had not the courage to be good.

Between skin and skin, there is only light.

The newspapers are full of what we would like to happen to us and what we hope will never happen to us.

We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.

I am one in a row of specimens. It's when I try to flutter out of line that he hates me. I'm meant to be dead, pinned, always the same, always beautiful. He knows that part of my beauty is being alive. but it's the dead me he wants. He wants me living-but-dead.