Perhaps this very instant is your time.

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.

The intellectual is a middle-class product; if he is not born into the class he must soon insert himself into it, in order to exist. He is the fine nervous flower of the bourgeoisie.

I'll lie here and learn How, over their ground, Trees make a long shadow And a light sound.

Innocence of heart and violence of feeling are necessary in any kind of superior achievement: The arts cannot exist without them.

A thousand kindnesses do not make up for a thousand blows.

No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.