Best thing to happen for a poet. A fine death, no? An impressive death.

That one individual should awaken in another memories that belong to still a third is an obvious paradox.

The future is as irrevocable as an inflexible yesterday.

He constructed a vast labyrinthine of periods, made impassable by the piling-up of clauses upon clauses-clauses in which oversight and bad grammar seemed manifestations of disdain.

The flattery of posterity is not worth much more than contemporary flattery, which is worth nothing.

The two important facts I should say, are emotion, and then words arising from emotion. I don't think you can write in an emotionless way. If you attempt it, the result is artificial. I don't like that kind of writing. I think that if a poem is really great, you should think of it as having written itself despite the author. It should flow.

Let others pride themselves about how many pages they have written; I'd rather boast about the ones I've read.