I can't understand these chaps who go round American universities explaining how they write poems: It's like going round explaining how you sleep with your wife.

And immediately Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

The breath that sharpens life is life itself.

We should be careful / Of each other, we should be kind / While there is still time.

Something, like nothing, happens anywhere.

What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over. Theyare to be happy in: Where can we live but days?

A writer can have only one language, if language is going to mean anything to him.