Of Lovers Whose Bodies Smell Of Each

As Things Are, And As Fundamentally They Must Always Be, Poetry Is Not A Career, But A Mug's Game. No Honest Poet Can Ever Feel Quite Sure Of The Permanent Value Of What He Has Written: He May Have Wasted His Time And Messed Up His Life For Nothing.

Fare Forward, Travellers! Not Escaping From The Past Into Different Lives, Or Into Any Future; You Are Not The Same People Who Left That Station Or Who Will Arrive At Any Terminus, While The Narrowing Rails Slide Together Behind You.

The Tiger Springs In The New Year. Us He Devours.

The Majority Of Mankind Is Lazyminded, Incurious, Absorbed In Vanities, And Tepid In Emotion, And Is Therefore Incapable Of Either Much Doubt Or Much Faith.

Stand On The Highest Pavement Of The Stair- Lean On A Garden Urn- Weave, Weave The Sunlight In Your Hair.