In Everyone There Sleeps A Sense Of

You Can't Put Off Being Young Until You Retire.

Home Is So Sad. It Stays As It Was Left, / Shaped To The Comfort Of The Last To Go / As If To Win Them Back

I Can't Understand These Chaps Who Go Round American Universities Explaining How They Write Poems: It's Like Going Round Explaining How You Sleep With Your Wife.

I Think That At The Bottom Of All Art Lies The Impulse To Preserve.

Never Such Innocence, Never Before Or Since, As Changed Itself To Past Without A Word--the Men Leaving The Gardens Tidy, The Thousands Of Marriages Lasting A Little While Longer: Never Such Innocence Again.