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.

Every man carries with him through life a mirror, as unique and impossible to get rid of as his shadow.

Death is the sound of distant thunder at a picnic.

The center that I cannot find is known to my unconscious mind.

Few people take an interest in Iceland, but in those few the interest is passionate.

The stars are dead. The animals will not look: We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and History to the defeated May say Alas but cannot help nor pardon.

The ideal audience the poet imagines consists of the beautiful who go to bed with him, the powerful who invite him to dinner and tell him secrets of state, and his fellow-poets. The actual audience he gets consists of myopic schoolteachers, pimply young men who eat in cafeterias, and his fellow-poets. This means, in fact, he writes for his fellow-poets.