What if angry vectors veer Round your sleeping head, and form. There's never need to fear Violence of the poor world's abstract storm.

How do poems grow? They grow out of your life.

If you are an idealist, it does not matter what you do or what goes on around you because it isn't real anyway.

[A]nd soon now we shall go out of the house and go into the convulsion of the world, out of history into history and the awful responsibility of Time.

I reckon I am a smart aleck, but it is just a way to pass the time.

A look at the past reminds us of how great is the distance, and how short, over which we have come. The past makes us ask what we have done with us. It makes us ask whether our very achievements are not ironical counterpoint and contrast to our fundamental failures.

There is nothing more alone than being in a car at night in the rain.