Sometimes, when I'm alone, I cry, 'cause I am on my own. The tears I cry are bitter and warm. They flow with life, but take no form. I cry because my heart is torn. I find it difficult to carry on. If I had an ear to confide in, I would cry among my treasured friends, but who do you know that stops that long, to help another carry on?

We can make a little order where we are, and then the big sweep of history on which we can have no effect doesn't overwhelm us. We do it with colors, with a garden, with the furnishings of a room, or with sounds and words. We make a little form, and we gain composure.

And of course there must be something wrongIn wanting to silence any song.

I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.

They would not find me changed from him they knew - only more sure of all I thought was true.

Poetry should be common in experience but uncommon in books.