Death: the anaesthetic from which none come round.

The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow Loosely as cannon-smoke... Is a reminder of the strength and pain Of being young; that it can't come again, But is for others undiminished somewhere.

Any memory for the most part depending on chance.

Clearly money has something to do with life.

It is fatal to decide, intellectually, what good poetry is because you are then in honour bound to try to write it, instead of the poems that only you can write.

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.

I wouldn't mind seeing China if I could come back the same day.