Any poet, if he is to survive beyond his 25th year, must alter; he must seek new literary influences; he will have different emotions to express.

I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.

O Lord, deliver me from the man of excellent intention and impure heart: for the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked.

In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing

History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors and issues.

Disillusion can become itself an illusion If we rest in it.

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.