Marriage, like money, is still with us; and, like money, progressively devalued.
There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money, either.
Anthropologists are a connecting link between poets and scientists though their fieldwork among primitive peoples has often made them forget the language of science.
Like Olympic medals and tennis trophies, all they signified was that the owner had done something of no benefit to anyone more capably than everyone else.
War was return of earth to ugly earth, War was foundering of sublimities, Extinction of each happy art and faith By which the world had still kept head in air, Protesting logic or protesting love, Until the unendurable moment struck - The inward scre
Kill if you must, but never hate: Man is but grass and hate is blight, The sun will scorch you soon or late, Die wholesome then, since you must fight
Intuition is the supra-logic that cuts out all the routine processes of thought and leaps straight from the problem to the answer.
The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he really is very good, in spite of all the people who say he is very good.
Love is a universal migraine / A bright stain on the vision / Blotting out reason.
When the immense drugged universe explodesIn a cascade of unendurable colourAnd leaves us gasping naked,This is no more than the ectasy of chaos:Hold fast, with both hands, to that royal loveWhich alone, as we know certainly, restoresFragmentation into true being.Ecstasy of Chaos
A remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he is really very good in spite of all the people who say he is very good.
She in left hand bears a leafy quince; When with her right she crooks a finger, smiling, How may the King hold back? Royally then he barters life for love.
If there's no money in poetry, neither is there poetry in money.
Never use the word 'audience.' The very idea of a public, unless the poet is writing for money, seems wrong to me. Poets don't have an 'audience'. They're talking to a single person all the time.
What, then, was war? No mere discord of flags But an infection of the common sky That sagged ominously upon the earth.
I protested: But all this is childish. Is there a war on here, or isn't there? The Royal Welch don't recognize it socially, he answered.
England looked strange to us returned soldiers. We could not understand the war madness that ran about everywhere, looking for a pseudo-military outlet. The civilians talked a foreign language; and it was newspaper language.
Truth-loving Persians do not dwell upon The trivial skirmish fought near Marathon.
The child alone a poet is: Spring and Fairyland are his. Truth and Reason show but dim, And all's poetry with him.
Faults in English prose derive not so much from lack of knowledge, intelligence or art as from lack of thought, patience or goodwill.
With a fork drive Nature out, She will ever yet return; Hedge the flowerbed all about, Pull or stab or cut or burn, She will ever yet return.
A perfect poem is impossible. Once it had been written, the world would end.
Sigh then, or frown, but leave (as in despair) Motive and end and moral in the air; Nice contradiction between fact and fact Will make the whole read human and exact.
Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling, Do not forget what flowers The great boar trampled down in ivy time. Her brow was creamy as the crested wave, Her sea-blue eyes were wild But nothing promised that is not performed.
Now I begin to know at last, These nights when I sit down to rhyme, The form and measure of that vast God we call Poetry, he who stoops And leaps me through his paper hoops A little higher every time.