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

The living can assist the imagination of the dead.

A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.

Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

There is another world, but it is in this one.

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

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.