Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.

It takes more courage to dig deep in the dark corners of your own soul and the back alleys of your society than it does for a soldier to fight on the battlefield.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

What can be explained is not poetry.

If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.

The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song After great cathedral gong.

An intellectual hatred is the worst.