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

rhetoric is will doing the work of imagination.

There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.

Fair and foul are near of kin And fair needs foul," I cried. "My friends are gone, but that's a truth Nor grave nor bed denied."

Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.

From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged / In rambling talk with an image of air: / Vague memories, nothing but memories.

I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.