Beloved, we are always in the wrong, Handling so clumsily our stupid lives, Suffering too little or too long, Too careful even in our selfish loves: The decorative manias we obey Die in grimaces round us every day, Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice Which utters an absurd command - Rejoice.

Language is the mother, not the handmaiden, of thought; words will tell you things you never thought or felt before.

Doom is dark and deeper than any sea-dingle.

How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me.

It's usually the stupid people that develop long illnesses. You need more than indolence and selfishness, you need endurance to make a good patient.

All I have is a voice.

A poet can write about a man slaying a dragon, but not about a man pushing a button that releases a bomb.