History is the ship carrying living memories to the future.
I think of those who were truly great. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.
There is a certain justice in criticism. The critic is like a midwife - a tyrannical midwife.
Great poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do.
I'm struggling at the end to get out of the valley of hectoring youth, journalistic middle age, imposture, moneymaking, public relations, bad writing, mental confusion.
When a child, my dreams rode on your wishes, / I was your son, high on your horse, / My mind a top whipped by the lashes / Of your rhetoric, windy of course.
People sometimes divide others into those you laugh at and those you laugh with. The young Auden was someone you could laugh-at-with.
Moments that can never happen again and never lost their wonder.
When you read and understand a poem, comprehending its rich and formal meanings, then you master chaos a little.
Who live under the shadow of a war,/ What can I do that matters?
The greatest poets are those with memories so great that they extend beyond their strongest experiences to their minutest observations of people and things far outside their own self-centeredness.
Although Poets are vain and ambitious, their vanity and ambition are of the purest kind attainable in this world. They are ambitious to be accepted for what they altimately are as revealed in their poetry.
Death to the killers, bringing light to life.
They think how one life hums, revolves and toils, One cog in a golden singing hive...
His name never appeared in the papers. The world maintained its traditional wall Round the dead with their gold sunk deep as a well, Whilst his life, intangible as a Stock Exchange rumour, drifted outside.