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.
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids Sprouting despondently at area gates.
The end is in the beginning.
There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.
As things are, and as fundamentally they must always be, poetry is not a career, but a mug's game. No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: He may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.