Perhaps this very instant is your time.

I hope that one or two immortal lyrics will come out of all this tumbling around.

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

The poem is always the last resort. In it the poet makes a world in little, and finds peace, even though, under complete focused emotion, the evocation be far more bitter than reality, or far more lovely.

Intellectuals range through the finest gradations of kind and quality: from those who are merely educated neurotics, usually with strong hidden reactionary tendencies, through mediocrities of all kinds, to men of real brains and sensibility, more or less stiffened into various respectabilities or substitutes for respectability. The number of Ignorant Specialists is large. The number of hysterics and compulsives is also large.

At midnight tears Run into your ears.

O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.