I Sometimes Imagine That As

More Than Any Other Beauty (though It Is True Of All Beauty Except In Art) Passion Seems To Me To Have The Seeds Of Its Own Destruction In It.

For To Be Desperate Is To Discover Strength. / We Die Of Comfort And By Conflict Live.

People Are Always Talking About The Joys Of Youth-but, Oh, How Youth Can Suffer!

Why Should It Happen That Among The Great Many Women Whom I See And Am Fond Of, Suddenly Somebody I Meet For Half An Hour Opens The Door Into Poetry?

I Feel Often Very Close To The Ecstasy And Anguish Which Lie At The Very Heart Of Poetry - I Am Writing A Lot.