“Knowledge is invariably a matter of degree: you cannot put your finger upon even the simplest datum and say this we know.”
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Moving between the legs of tables and of chairs, rising or falling, grasping at kisses and toys, advancing boldly, sudden to take alarm, retreating to the corner of arm and knee, eager to be reassured, taking pleasure in the fragrant brilliance of the Christmas tree.
As things are, and as fundamentally they must always be, poetry is not a career, but a mug's game. No honest poet can ever feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: He may have wasted his time and messed up his life for nothing.
This love is silent.
Poetry should help, not only to refine the language of the time, but to prevent it from changing too rapidly.