The fusty showman fumbles, must Fit in a particle of dust The universe, for fear it gain Its freedom from my cube of brain. Yet dust bears seeds that grow to grace Behind my crude-striped wooden face As I, a puppet tinsel-pink Leap on my springs, learn how to think- Till like the trembling golden stalk Of some long-petalled star, I walk Through the dark heavens, and the dew Falls on my eyes and sense thrills through.
Your soul: pure glucose edged with hints Of tentative and half-soiled tints
All day long you sit and sew, Stitch life down for fear it grow, Stitch life down for fear we guess At the hidden ugliness. Dusty voice that throbs with heat, Hoping with your steel-thin beat To put stitches in my mind, Make it tidy, make it kind, You shall not: I'll keep it free Though you turn earth, sky and sea To a patchwork quilt to keep Your mind snug and warm in sleep!
Said the Sun to the Moon-'When you are but a lonely white crone, And I, a dead King in my golden armour somewhere in a dark wood, Remember only this of our hopeless love That never till Time is done Will the fire of the heart and the fire of the mind be one
I wish the government would put a tax on pianos for the incompetent.
Poetry is the deification of reality.
I am patient with stupidity, but not with those who are proud of it.
My personal hobbies are reading, listening to music, and silence.
Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.
I am not eccentric. It's just that I am more alive than most people. I am an unpopular electric eel set in a pond of catfish.
The public will believe anything, so long as it is not founded on truth.
The aim of flattery is to soothe and encourage us by assuring us of the truth of an opinion we have already formed about ourselves.
I am one of those unhappy persons who inspire bores to the greatest flights of art.
Hot water is my native element. I was in it as a baby, and I have never seemed to get out of it ever since.
Still falls the rain- dark as the world of man, black as our loss - blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails upon the Cross.
I have taken this step because I want the discipline, the fire and the authority of the Church. I am hopelessly unworthy of it, but I hope to become worthy.
The poet speaks to all men of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten.
The trouble with most Englishwomen is that they will dress as if they had been a mouse in a previous incarnation they do not want to attract attention.
A great many people now reading and writing would be better employed keeping rabbits.
I am an unpopular electric eel in a pool of catfish.
I am patient with stupidity but not with those who are proud of it.
Good taste is the worst vice ever invented.
I have often wished I had time to cultivate modesty... but I am too busy thinking about myself.
Virginia Woolf's writing is no more than glamorous knitting. I believe she must have a pattern somewhere.
One's own surroundings means so much to one, when one is feeling miserable.
Why not be oneself? That is the whole secret of a successful appearance. If one is a greyhound why try to look like a Pekinese?
There is no truth. Only points of view.
If certain critics and poetasters had their way, 'Ordinary Piety' and its child, Dullness, would be the masters of poetry.
All great art contains an element of the irrational.
The child and the great artist-- these alone receive the sensation fresh as it was at the beginning of the world.
Vulgarity is, in reality, nothing but a modern, chic, pert descendant of the goddess Dullness.
the great sins and fires break out of me like the terrible leaves from the bough in the violent spring. I am a walking fire, I am all leaves ...
all ugliness passes, and beauty endures, excepting of the skin.
What is the special privilege of youth? It is, I think, the power of looking forward, the firm belief that the future holds something that is worth possessing, and that, therefore, one can let the present moment drop from one without regret and without fear.
The poet is the complete lover of mankind.
All great poetry is dipped in the dyes of the heart.
it is as unseeing to ask what is the use of poetry as it would be to ask what is the use of religion.
The last faint sparkIn the self- murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehendingdark,The wounds of the baited bear,--The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beatOn his helpless flesh . . . the tears of the hunted hare.
I may say that I think greed about poetry is the only permissible greed - it is, indeed, unavoidable.
Picasso was a delightful, kindly, friendly, simple little man. When I met him he was extremely excited and overjoyed that his mother-in-law had just died, and he was looking forward to the funeral.