The poet marries the language, and out of this marriage the poem is born.

Thou shalt not answer questionnaires Or quizzes upon world affairs, Nor with compliance Take any test. Thou shalt not sit with statisticians nor commit A social science.

In the end, art is small beer. The really serious things are earning one's living so as not to be a parasite and loving one's neighbor.

Of all possible subjects, travel is the most difficult for an artist, as it is the easiest for a journalist.

If there are any souls in hell, it is because that is where they insist on being.

Fate succumbs many a species: one alone jeopardises itself.

Warm are the still and lucky miles, White shores of longing stretch away, A light of recognition fills The whole great day, and bright The tiny world of lovers' arms. Silence invades the breathing wood Where drowsy limbs a treasure keep, Now greenly falls the learned shade Across the sleeping brows And stirs their secret to a smile. Restored! Returned! The lost are borne On seas of shipwreck home at last: See! In a fire of praising burns The dry dumb past, and we Our life-day long shall part no more.