Birth, and copulation, and death; that's all the facts when you come to brass tacks.

Someone said, 'The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.' Precisely, and they are that which we know.

We ask only to be reassured About the noises in the cellar And the window that should not have been open

There is no escape from metre; there is only mastery.

time past and time future what might have been and what has been point to one end, which is always present.

The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.

He had a mind so fine that no idea could violate it