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.

The art of one period cannot be approached through the attitudes (emotional or intellectual) of another.

The Initial Mystery that attends any journey is: how did the traveler reach his starting point in the first place?

I don't like quintessential certitude.

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

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