I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.
If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
I have known more men destroyed by the desire to have wife and child and to keep them in comfort than I have seen destroyed by drink and harlots.
Because I helped to wind the clock, I come to hear it strike.
I sat, a solitary man, In a crowded London shop, An open book and empty cup On the marble table-top. While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed; And twenty minutes more or less It seemed, so great my happiness, That I was blessed and could bless.