“I have done many impious things–no great ruler can do otherwise. I have put the good of the Empire before all human considerations. To keep the Empire free from factions I have had to commit many crimes.”

Any honest housewife would sort them out, Having a nose for fish, an eye for apples.

Every fairy child may keep Two strong ponies and ten sheep; All have houses, each his own, Built of brick or granite stone; They live on cherries, they run wild I’d love to be a Fairy’s child.

The award of a pure gold medal for poetry would flatter the recipient unduly: no poem ever attains such carat purity.

The gift of independence once granted cannot be lightly taken away again.

Poet, never chase the dream. Laugh yourself and turn away. Mask your hunger, let it seem Small matter if he come or stay; But when he nestles in your hand at last, Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.

You mean that people who continue virtuous in an old-fashioned way must inevitably suffer in times like these?

Kaisers and Czars will strut the stage Once more with pomp and greed and rage; Courtly ministers will stop At home and fight to the last drop; By the million men will die In some new horrible agony.

There is one story and one story only.

Well, we’ve been lucky devils both And there is no need for a pledge or oath To bind our lovely friendship fast, By firmer stuff Close bound enough.

A well-chosen anthology is a complete dispensary of medicine for the more common mental disorders, and may be used as much for prevention as cure.

There is no such thing as good writing, only good rewriting.

We forget cruelty and past betrayal, Heedless of where the next bright bolt may fall.

Since the age of 15 poetry has been my ruling passion and I have never intentionally undertaken any task or formed any relationship that seemed inconsistent with poetic principles; which has sometimes won me the reputation of an eccentric.

Let all the poison that lurks in the mud, hatch out.

Every fairy child may keep Two strong ponies and ten sheep; All have houses, each his own, Built of brick or granite stone; They live on cherries, they run wild I’d love to be a Fairy’s child.

This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet’s destiny is to love.

Making it purer and emptier, more absolute and more exclusive – non-objective, non-representational, non-figurative, non-imagist, non-expressionist, non-subjective.

How often has not the parallel been drawn and the golden age of the Roman Empire, when the external brilliancy of life likewise dazzled the eye

When I marched with Martin Luther King in Selma, I felt my legs were praying.

All empire is no more than power in trust.

O, beautiful and grand, My own, my native land! Of thee I boast: Great empire of the west, The dearest and the best, Made up of all the rest, I love thee most.

So what. What are you going to do? Jump off the Empire State Building?” It’s all still the same. The last day of your life is still going to be a day.

For harmony makes small states great, while discord undermines the mightiest empires.

When words cease to cling close to things, kingdoms fall, empires wane and diminish.