In a world of fugitives the one who stays home will seem to be running away

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.

Yeats was the greatest poet of our times . . . certainly the greatest in this language, and so far as I am able to judge, in any language.

Birth, and copulation, and death; that's all the facts when you come to brass tacks.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.

We must always take risks. That is our destiny.

Dante and Shakespeare divide the world between them. There is no third.