Prose books are the show dogs I breed and sell to support my cat.

This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet's destiny is to love.

The sap of Spring in the young wood a-stir Will celebrate with green the Mother, And every song-bird shout awhile for her; But we are gifted, even in November Rawest of seasons, with so huge a sense Of Her nakedly worn magnificence We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

The award of a pure gold medal for poetry would flatter the recipient unduly: no poem ever attains such carat purity.

Genius not only diagnoses the situation but supplies the answers.

The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he really is very good, in spite of all the people who say he is very good.

One smile relieves a heart that grieves.