Sand. Everywhere. In the bed, in the shower, all over the floor. Grrrrr.

Knowledge is invariably a matter of degree: you cannot put your finger upon even the simplest datum and say this we know.

Not only every great poet, but every genuine, but lesser poet, fulfils once for all some possibility of language, and so leaves one possibility less for his successors.

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.

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

In a mind charged with an eager purpose and an unfinished vindictiveness, there is no room for new feelings.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?