The young feel tired at the end of an action, the old at the beginning.

What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.

The poet's mind is in fact a receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feelings, phrases, images, which remain there until all the particles which can unite to form a new compound are present together.

I don't believe one grows older. I think that what happens early on in life is that at a certain age one stands still and stagnates.

What a poem means is as much what it means to others as what it means to the author; and indeed, in the course of time a poet may become merely reader in respect to his own works, forgetting his original meaning.

We had the experience but missed the meaning. And approach to the meaning restores the experience in a different form.

Now that lilacs are in bloom She has a bowl of lilacs in her room And twists one in her fingers while she talks. "Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know What life is, you who hold it in your hands"; (slowly twisting the lilac stalks) "You let it flow from you, you let it flow, And youth is cruel, and has no remorse And smiles at situations which it cannot see." I smile, of course, And go on drinking tea.