Sob, heavy world Sob as you spin, Mantled in mist Remote from the happy.
One cannot walk through an assembly factory and not feel that one is in Hell.
A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.
‘Healing,’ Papa would tell me, ‘is not a science, but the intuitive art of wooing nature.’
We all have these places where shy humiliations gambol on sunny afternoons.
The class distinctions proper to a democratic society are not those of rank or money, still less, as is apt to happen when these are abandoned, of race, but of age.
If time were the wicked sheriff in a horse opera, I’d pay for riding lessons and take his gun away.
Music is the best means we have of digesting time.
I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you till China and Africa meet and the river jumps over the mountain and the salmon sing in the street.
It’s frightening how easy it is to commit murder in America. Just a drink too much. I can see myself doing it. In England, one feels all the social restraints holding one back. But here, anything can happen.