The more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mind which creates.
The last thing one discovers in composing a work is what to put first.
His laughter tinkled among the teacups.
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.
My greatest trouble is getting the curtain up and down.
Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.