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.
No place of grace for those who avoid the Face. No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the Voice.
Bad poets imitate, good poets steal.
Uncorseted, her friendly bust Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The past and future / Are conquered, and reconciled.
Hell is oneself, hell is alone, the other figures in it merely projections. There is nothing to escape from and nothing to escape to. One is always alone.