All poets adore explosions, thunderstorms, tornadoes, conflagrations, ruins, scenes of spectacular carnage. The poetic imagination is not at all a desirable quality in a statesman.

All good art is in the nature of a letter written to amuse a sick friend. Too much art, particularly in our time, is only a letter written to oneself.

The nightingales are sobbing in The orchards of our mothers, And hearts that we broke long ago Have long been breaking others; Tears are round, the sea is deep: Roll them overboard and sleep.

All that we are not stares back at what we are.

Though one cannot always Remember exactly why one has been happy, There is no forgetting that one was.

The most important truths are likely to be those which society at that time least wants to hear.

Herds of reindeer move across Miles and miles of golden moss