I'm struggling at the end to get out of the valley of hectoring youth, journalistic middle age, imposture, moneymaking, public relations, bad writing, mental confusion.

Religion stands, the Church blocking the sun.

One of my great surprises when I was in America was about twenty-five years ago in Harvard, hearing Randall Jarrell deliver a bitter attack on the way poets were neglected. Yet there were about two thousand people present, and he was being paid five hundred dollars for delivering this attack.

I think of those who were truly great. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.

If Rilke cut himself shaving, he would bleed poetry.

An English poet writes, I think, just for people who are interested in poetry. An American poet writes, and feels that everyone ought to appreciate this. Then he has a deep sense of grievance . . .

Great poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do.