I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.

The remarkable thing about television is that it permits several million people to laugh at the same joke and still feel lonely.

It seems just possible that a poem might happen to a very young man: but a poem is not poetry -That is a life.

There is, it seems to us, At best, only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience.

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

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.

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.