Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.

Myself I must remake.

This melancholy London - I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.

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

...How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face... "When You Are Old And Gray

Ah, let us kiss each other's eyes,/And laugh our love away.