Every poet has his dream reader: mine keeps a look out for curious prosodic fauna like bacchics and choriambs.
Nobody is ever sent to Hell: he or she insists on going there.
Whatever the field under discussion, those who engage in debate must not only believe in each other’s good faith, but also in their capacity to arrive at the truth.
Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm;.
You shall love your crooked neighbour, with your crooked heart.
The nightingales are sobbing in The orchards of our mothers, And hearts that we broke long ago Have long been breaking others; Tears are round, the sea is deep: Roll them overboard and sleep.
Poetry makes nothing happen.
Now the leaves are falling fast, Nurse’s flowers will not last, Nurses to their graves are gone, But the prams go rolling on.
A poet’s hope: to be, like some valley cheese, local, but prized elsewhere.
Most people enjoy the sight of their own handwriting as they enjoy the smell of their own farts.
Those who will not reason, perish in the act. Those who will not act, perish for that reason.
There is a great deal of difference in believing something still, and believing it again.
The friends who met here and embraced are gone, Each to his own mistake;.
The critical opinions of a writer should always be taken with a large grain of salt. For the most part, they are manifestations of his debate with himself as to what he should do next and what he should avoid.
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire; Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire.
Far from his illness The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
Let me see what I wrote so I know what I think.
We were put on this earth to make things.
Drama is based on the Mistake.
Happy the hare at morning, for she cannot read The hunter’s waking thoughts.