It is a test (a positive test, I do not assert that it is always valid negatively), that genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started.

The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion.

He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience.

Humility is the most difficult of all virtues to achieve; nothing dies harder than the desire to think well of self.

What is this self-inside us, this silent observer, severe and speechless critic, who can terrorize us, and urge us onto futile activity, and in the end, judge us still more severely for the errors into which his own reproaches drove us?

I learn a great deal by merely observing you, and letting you talk as long as you please, and taking note of what you do not say.