All thought is a feat of association; having what's in front of you bring up something in your mind that you almost didn't know you knew

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

What is done is done for the love of it- or not really done at all.

I've given offense by saying I'd as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orch-ard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night.

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

The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all.