“ A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language. ”
He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
~ W.h. Auden
If equal affection cannot be,Let the more loving one be me.
I am sure it is everyone’s experience, as it has been mine, that any discovery we make about ourselves or the meaning of life is never, like a scientific discovery, a coming upon something entirely new and unsuspected; it is rather, the coming to conscious recognition of something, which we really knew all the time but, because we were unwilling to formulate it correctly, we did not hitherto know we knew.
Truth, like love and sleep, resents approaches that are too intense.
