Unreal friendship may turn to real But real friendship, once ended, cannot be mended

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

The communication of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.

In the last few years everything I'd done up to sixty or so has seemed very childish.

A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.

Writing every day is a way of keeping the engine running, and then something good may come out of it.

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky