A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.

For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice.

Where does one go from a world of insanity? Somewhere on the other side of despair.

I must say Bernard Shaw is greatly improved by music.

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

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.

I say to you: Make perfect your will. / I say: take no thought of the harvest, / But only of proper sowing.