A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.

Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?

Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.

It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is