The commonest ivory tower is that of the average man, the state of passivity towards experience.

About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters; How well they understood Its human position; how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along.

I'll love you, dear, I'll love you till China and Africa meet and the river jumps over the mountain and the salmon sing in the street.

When one looks into the window of a store which sells devotional art objects, one can't help wishing the iconoclasts had won.

I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.

Words have no word for words that are not true.

The poet who writes "free" verse is like Robinson Crusoe on his desert island: he must do all his cooking, laundry and darning for himself. In a few exceptional cases, this manly independence produces something original and impressive, but more often the result is squalor - dirty sheets on the unmade bed and empty bottles on the unswept floor.