I have taken this step because I want the discipline, the fire and the authority of the Church. I am hopelessly unworthy of it, but I hope to become worthy.
Poetry is the deification of reality.
The poet speaks to all men of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten.
The public will believe anything, so long as it is not founded on truth.
Winter is the time for comfort – it is the time for home.
Rhythm is one of the principal translators between dream and reality. Rhythm might be described as, to the world of sound, what light is to the world of sight. It shapes and gives new meaning. Rhythm was described by Schopenhauer as melody deprived of its pitch.
White as a winding sheet, Masks blowing down the street: Moscow, Paris London, Vienna all are undone. The drums of death are mumbling, rumbling, and tumbling, Mumbling, rumbling, and tumbling, The world’s floors are quaking, crumbling and breaking.
Tall windows show Infinity; And, hard reality, The candles weep and pry and dance Like lives mocked at by Chance. The rooms are vast as Sleep within; When once I ventured in, Chill Silence, like a surging sea, Slowly enveloped me.
People are usually made Dames for virtues I do not possess.
Virginia Woolf, I enjoyed talking to her, but thought nothing of her writing. I considered her ’a beautiful little knitter.
The poet is the complete lover of mankind.
I’m afraid I’m being an awful nuisance.
I have never, in all my life, been so odious as to regard myself as ‘superior’ to any living being, human or animal. I just walked alone – as I have always walked alone.
By ‘happiness’ I do not mean worldly success or outside approval, though it would be priggish to deny that both these things are most agreeable. I mean the inner consciousness, the inner conviction that one is doing well the thing that one is best fitted to do by nature.
Art is magic, not logic. This craze for the logical spirit in irrational shape is part of the present harmful mania for uniformity...
The poet is a brother speaking to a brother of “a moment of their other lives” a moment that had been buried beneath the dust of the busy world.
The trouble with most Englishwomen is that they will dress as if they had been a mouse in a previous incarnation they do not want to attract attention.
It is hardly respectable to be good nowadays.
Why not be oneself? That is the whole secret of a successful appearance. If one is a greyhound why try to look like a Pekinese?
Said the Sun to the Moon-’When you are but a lonely white crone, And I, a dead King in my golden armour somewhere in a dark wood, Remember only this of our hopeless love That never till Time is done Will the fire of the heart and the fire of the mind be one.