Donne, I suppose, was such another / Who found no substitute for sense. / To seize and clutch and penetrate; / Expert beyond experience.

And we must think no further of you.

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; / Am an attendant lord.

Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.

The Nobel is a ticket to one's own funeral. No one has ever done anything after he got it.

Any poet, if he is to survive beyond his 25th year, must alter; he must seek new literary influences; he will have different emotions to express.