Poetry should help, not only to refine the language of the time, but to prevent it from changing too rapidly.

What is true, is true only for one time and only for one place.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap And seeing that it was a soft October night Curled once about the house, and fell asleep

Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter.

If one has to earn a living, therefore, the safest occupation is that most remote from the arts.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

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.