All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.

The problem wiv some blokes is that wen they ain't drunk, they're sober.

I balanced all, brought all to mind, the years to come seemed waste of breath, a waste of breath the years behind, in balance with this life, this death.

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

True love is a discipline in which each divines the secret self of the other and refuses to believe in the mere daily self.

Life is a long preparation for something that never happens.