A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.

There is nothing beginning nor end to the imagination but it delights in its own seasons reversing the usual order at will.

Death will be too late to bring us aid.

My first poem was a bolt from the blue … it broke a spell of disillusion and suicidal despondence. ... it filled me with soul satisfying joy.

[History is] a tyranny over the souls of the dead - and so the imagination of the living.

beauty’ is related not to ‘loveliness’ but to a state in which reality plays a part.

There is no thing that with a twist of the imagination cannot be something else. Porpoises risen in a green sea, the wind at nightfall bending the rose- red grasses and you- in your apron hurrying to catch- say it seems to you to be your son. How ridiculous! You will pass up into a cloud and look back at me, not count the scribbling foolish that put wings at your heels, at your knees.