There is, it seems to us, At best, only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience.

Cling, swing, Spring, sing, Swing up into the apple tree.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.

In our rhythm of earthly life we tire of light. We are glad when the day ends, when the play ends; and ecstasy is too much pain.

In my beginning is my end. In succession Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended, Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass. Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires, Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth Which is already flesh, fur and faeces, Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.

As we grow older, the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated of dead and living.

Success is relative. It is what we make of the mess we have made of things.