One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the dame day as we do ourselves.

Death is no different whined at than withstood.

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.

If you tell a novelist, 'Life's not like that', he has to do something about it. The poet simply replies, 'No, but I am.'

Clearly money has something to do with life.

It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind,
Or not untrue and not unkind.

Life has a practice of living you, if you don't live it.