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

Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm; And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.

One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the same day as we do ourselves.

I have wished you something None of the others would....

Here is unfenced existence

It becomes still more difficult to find Words at once true and kind, Or not untrue and not unkind.

Saki says that youth is like hors d'oeuvres: you are so busy thinking of the next courses you don't notice it. When you've had them, you wish you'd had more hors d'oeuvres.

The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow Loosely as cannon-smoke... Is a reminder of the strength and pain Of being young; that it can't come again, But is for others undiminished somewhere.

If I looked into your face / expecting a word or a laugh on the old conditions, / it would not be a friend who met my eye

I came to the conclusion that an enormous amount of research was needed to form an opinion on anything, and therefore abandoned politics altogether as a topic of conversation.

I had a moral tutor, but never saw him (the only words of his I remember are 'The three pleasures of life -drinking, smoking, and masturbation')

Earth never grieves, I thought, walking across the park, watching seagulls cruising greedily above the ground looking for heaven knows what. Don't you think it's a good line? A very good line

Only one ship is seeking us, a black- Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back A huge and birdless silence. In her wake No waters breed or break.

He [Llewelyn Powys] has always in mind the great touchstone Death & consequently life is always judged as how far it fits us, or compensates us, for ultimately dying.

It will be worth it, if in the end I manage To blank out whatever it is that is doing the damage. Then there will be nothing I know. My mind will fold into itself, like fields, like snow.

They both rise / Make for the Coke dispenser. 'What's he like? / Christ, I just told you.

Parting is all we know of heaven And all we need of hell

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!

If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange And be all to me?

Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me.

My patience has dreadful chilblains from standing so long on a monument.

I am one who could have forgotten the plague, listening to Boccaccio's stories; and I am not ashamed of it.

I begin to think that none are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.