Words have no word for words that are not true.

A craftsman knows in advance what the finished result will be, while the artist knows only what it will be when he has finished it.

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

A false enchantment can all too easily last a lifetime.

And none will hear the postman’s knock Without a quickening of the heart. For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

A verbal art like poetry is reflective; it stops to think. Music is immediate, it goes on to become.

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.