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

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap And seeing that it was a soft October night Curled once about the house, and fell asleep

All time is eternal, moving inexorably toward an end which we believe is a result of our actions, but over which our control is mere illusion.

Artistic inevitability lies in the complete adequacy of the external to the emotion.

Each venture Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling.

When a great poet has lived, certain things have been done once for all, and cannot be achieved again.