All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.

The form of government that is most suitable to the artist is no government at all. Authority over him and his art is ridiculous.

Hard work is amply the refuge of those who have nothing to do.

Behind joy and laughter there may be a temperament, coarse, hard and callous. But behind sorrow there is always sorrow. Pain, unlike pleasure, wears no mask. ... For this reason there is no truth comparable to sorrow. There are times when sorrow seems to me to be the only truth. Other things may be illusions of the eye or the appetite, made to blind the one and cloy the other, but out of sorrow have the worlds been built, and at the birth of a child or a star there is pain.

I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky.

As I lounged in the Park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at everyone who passed me, and wonder, with mad curiosity, what sort of lives they led. some of them fascinated me. Others filled me with terror.

I often take exercise. Why only yesterday I had breakfast in bed.