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1. black
2. grey
3. blue
4. red
5. brown
6. white

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

Robert Graves

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  A perfect poem is impossible. Once it had been written, the world would end. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.

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  As you are woman, so be lovely: As you are lovely, so be various, Merciful as constant, constant as various, So be mine, as I yours for ever.

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  Prose books are the show dogs I breed and sell to support my cat.

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  I don’t really feel my poems are mine at all. I didn’t create them out of nothing. I owe them to my relations with other people.

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• 

  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.

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  There’s a cool web of language winds us in, Retreat from too much joy or too much fear: We grow sea-green at last and coldly die In brininess and volubility.

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• 

  To be a poet is a condition rather than a profession.

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  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.

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  For words of rapture groping, they”Never such love,” swore “ever before was!”

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  The decline of true taste for food is the beginning of a decline in a national culture as a whole. When people have lost their authentic personal taste, they lose their personality and become the instruments of other people’s wills.

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  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.

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  Myths are seldom simple, and never irresponsible.

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  The poet’s first rule must be never to bore his readers; and his best way of keeping this rule is never to bore himself-which, of course, means to write only when he has something urgent to say.

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• 

  Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher Swept off his tall hat to the Squire’s own daughter, So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly Singing about her head, as she rode by.

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  Entrance and exit wounds are silvered clean, The track aches only when the rain reminds. The one-legged man forgets his leg of wood, The one-armed man his jointed wooden arm. The blinded man sees with his ears and hands As much or more than once with both his eyes.

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  I was thinking, “So, I’m Emperor, am I? What nonsense! But at least I’ll be able to make people read my books now.

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