The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . . I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance - the revolt of the soul against the intellect.

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.

We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.

Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.

How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.

Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.

On limestone quarried near the spot By his command these words are cut: Cast a cold eye On life, on death. Horseman, pass by!