Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.

If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.

In the end, there is no end.

We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.

The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.

Poetry is not the record of an event: it is an event.

It is night, And it is vanity, and age Blackens the heart of Adam. Fear, The yellow chirper, beaks its cage.

History has to live with what was here, clutching and close to fumbling all we had - it is so dull and gruesome how we die, unlike writing, life never finishes.

Most poetry is very formal, but when a modern poet is formal he gets more attention for it than old poets did.

I was overcome with an attack of pathological enthusiasm.

Sometimes nothing is so solid to me as writing - I suppose that's what a vocation means - at times a torment, a bad conscience, but all in all, purpose and direction.

It was a wonderful feeling, a sense of release and boundless freedom that he had never known before. He was beyond the reach of all the things that had weighed him down and hemmed him in.

If there was one thing she'd learned from her parents, it's that pleasure was sacred.

Change is the nature of life but challenge is the future of life. So challenge the changes. Never change the challenges.

When men are easy in themselves, they let others remain so.

There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye.

I trudged around on the muddy river bottom for half an hour, patiently waiting to drown, before giving up and slogging my way back to shore.

I want people to know there is more to Somalia than looting and piracy.

The shortest follies are the best.

With the backdrop of The Salvation Army's century and a half of service to the world's poor, these songs and reflections are born of meaningful engagement with a living Gospel

This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.