Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.

Fortunately, we don't need to know how bad an age is. There is something we can always be doing without reference to how good or bad the age is.

A breeze discovered my open book And began to flutter the leaves to look

I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.

For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn't know I knew. I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew.

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud And goes down burning into the gulf below, No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud At what has happened. Birds, at least must know It is the change to darkness in the sky. Murmuring something quiet in her breast, One bird begins to close a faded eye; Or overtaken too far from his nest, Hurrying low above the grove, some waif Swoops just in time to his remembered tree. At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe! Now let the night be dark for all of me. Let the night be too dark for me to see Into the future. Let what will be, be.

The only way round is through.