The camera may do justice to laughter, but must degrade sorrow.

Life is a picnic on a precipice.

To my generation no other English poet seemed so perfectly to express the sensibility of a male adolescent. If I do not now turn to him very often, I am eternally grateful to him for the joy he gave me in my youth.

Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.

All the rest is silence On the other side of the wall, And the silence ripeness, And the ripeness all.

Say this city has ten million souls, Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes: Yet there’s no place for us, my dear, yet there’s no place for us.

Happy the hare at morning, for she cannot read The hunter's waking thoughts.