He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience.

The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion.

It is only in the world of objects that we have time and space and selves.

Where is the Life we lost in living?

Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.

The nightingales are singing near The Convent of the Sacred Heart, And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud, And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.

Liberty is a different kind of pain from prison.