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

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

Robert Graves

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  Anthropologists are a connecting link between poets and scientists; though their field-work among primitive peoples has often made them forget the language of science.

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  Nine-tenths of English poetic literature is the result either of vulgar careerism or of a poet trying to keep his hand in. Most poets are dead by their late twenties.

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  I was last in Rome in AD 540 when it was full of Goths and their heavy horses. It has changed a great deal since then.

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  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.

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  Hardly one soldier in a hundred was inspired by religious feeling of even the crudest kind. It would have been difficult to remain religious in the trenches even if one had survived the irreligion of the training battalion at home.

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

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  I made no more protests. What was the use of struggling against fate.

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  But give thanks, at least, that you still have Frost’s poems; and when you feel the need of solitude, retreat to the companionship of moon, water, hills and trees. Retreat, he reminds us, should not be confused with escape. And take these poems along for good luck!

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

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  As was the custom in such cases, the pear tree was charged with murder and sentenced to be uprooted and burned.

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  As was the custom in such cases, the pear tree was charged with murder and sentenced to be uprooted and burned.

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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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  When I’m killed, don’t think of me Buried there in Cambrin Wood, Nor as in Zion think of me With the Intolerable Good. And there’s one thing that I know well, I’m damned if I’ll be damned to Hell!

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  Never use the word ‘audience.’ The very idea of a public, unless the poet is writing for money, seems wrong to me. Poets don’t have an ‘audience’. They’re talking to a single person all the time.

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