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.

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

Routine, in an intelligent man, is a sign of ambition.

Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire; Still waters run deep, my dear, there's never smoke without fire.

Encased in talent like a uniform, The rank of every poet is well known; They can amaze us like a thunderstorm, Or die so young, or live for years alone.

Every high C accurately struck demolishes the theory that we are the irresponsible puppets of fate or chance.

Does God judge us by appearances? I Suspect that He does.