Though one cannot always Remember exactly why one has been happy, There is no forgetting that one was.

The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living.

Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm.

A poet can write about a man slaying a dragon, but not about a man pushing a button that releases a bomb.

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.

No poet or novelist wishes he were the only one who ever lived, but most of them wish they were the only one alive, and quite a number fondly believe their wish has been granted.

If age, which is certainly Just as wicked as youth, look any wiser, It is only that youth is still able to believe It will get away with anything, while age Knows only too well that it has got away with nothing.