Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

Before me floats an image, man or shade, / Shade more than man, more image than a shade.

If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.

The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.

We poets would die of loneliness but for women, and we choose our men friends that we may have somebody to talk about women with. Letter to Olivia Shakespeare, 1936

Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.