I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action

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

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.'

On me your voice falls as they say love should, Like an enormous yes.

In everyone there sleeps a sense of life lived according to love.

Only in books the flat and final happens, Only in dreams we meet and interlock.

The poetic impulse is distinct from ideas about things or feelings about things, though it may use these. It's more like a desire to separate a piece of one's experience & set it up on its own, an isolated object never to trouble you again, at least not for a bit. In the absence of this impulse nothing stirs.