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

But it's silly to suggest the writing of poetry is something ethereal, a sort of soul-crashing, devastating emotional experience that wrings you. I have no fancy ideas about poetry. ... It doesn't come to you on the wings of a dove. It's something you have to work hard at.

At midnight tears Run into your ears.

Stupidity always accompanies evil. Or evil, stupidity.

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

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

Hate does not present many choices; if hate is your solution, you are fairly certain to hate all phemonena with equal joy and intensity, without troubling to drag into prominence any one feature from the loathsome whole.