“Do not ever read books about versification: no poet ever learnt it that way. If you are going to be a poet, it will come to you naturally and you will pick up all you need from reading poetry.”

Who made the world I cannot tell; ‘Tis made, and here am I in hell. My hand, though now my knuckles bleed, I never soiled with such a deed.

And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.

The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.

His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away.

Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.

But if you ever come to a road where danger; Or guilt or anguish or shame’s to share. Be good to the lad who loves you true, And the soul that was born to die for you; And whistle and I’ll be there.

I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.

And how am I to face the odds Of man’s bedevilment and God’s? I, a stranger and afraid In a world I never made.

Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.

The average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.

Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour, He stood and counted them and cursed his luck; And then the clock collected in the tower Its strength, and struck.

When the journey’s over/There’ll be time enough to sleep.

He would not stay for me, and who can wonder? He would not stay for me to stand and gaze. I shook his hand, and tore my heart in sunder, And went with half my life about my ways.

I, a stranger and afraid, in a world I never made.

All knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.

Look not in my eyes, for fear They mirror true the sight I see, And there you find your face too clear And love it and be lost like me.