Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.

There is something I want-something I have come to get, and she fell deeper and deeper without knowing quite what it was, with her eyes closed.

In certain favorable moods, memories -- what one has forgotten -- come to the top. Now if this is so, is it not possible -- I often wonder -- that things we have felt with great intensity have an existence independent of our minds; are in fact still in existence? And if so, will it not be possible, in time, that some device will be invented by which we can tap them?

Let it be fact, one feels, or let it be fiction; the imagination will not serve under two masters simultaneously.

I am all the time thinking about poetry and fiction and you.

Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.