I was last in Rome in AD 540 when it was full of Goths and their heavy horses. It has changed a great deal since then.

Love is a universal migraine. A bright stain on the vision, Blotting out reason.

Nine-tenths of English poetic literature is the result either of vulgar careerism or of a poet trying to keep his hand in. Most poets are dead by their late twenties.

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

I revise the manuscript till I can't read it any longer, then I get somebody to type it. Then I revise the typing. Then it's retyped again. Then there's a third typing, which is the final one. Nothing should then remain that offends the eye.

There is no such thing as good writing, only good rewriting.

Love is universal migraine, A bright stain on the vision Blotting out reason. Symptoms of true love Are leanness, jealousy, Laggard dawns; Are omens and nightmares - Listening for a knock, Waiting for a sign: For a touch of her fingers In a darkened room, For a searching look. Take courage, lover! Could you endure such pain At any hand but hers?