Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me, and drench me in loneliness.
My sorrow, when she’s here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
There is a tragic clash between Truth and the world. Pure undistorted truth burns up the world.
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.
I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.
Space ails us moderns: we are sick with space.
Thinking isn’t agreeing or disagreeing. That’s voting.
A person will sometimes devote all his life to the development of one part of his body – the wishbone.