I think that one possible definition of our modern culture is that it is one in which nine-tenths of our intellectuals can't read any poetry.

The cat's asleep; I whisper "kitten"
Till he stirs a little and begins to purr--
He doesn't wake. Today out on the limb
(The limb he thinks he can't climb down from)
He mewed until I heard him in the house.
I climbed up to get him down: he mewed.
What he says and what he sees are limited.
My own response is even more constricted.
I think, "It's lucky; what you have is too."
What do you have except--well, me?
I joke about it but it's not a joke;
The house and I are all he remembers.
Next month how will he guess that it is winter
And not just entropy, the universe
Plunging at last into its cold decline?
I cannot think of him without a pang.
Poor rumpled thing, why don't you see
That you have no more, really, than a man?
Men aren't happy; why are you?

All great ideas are dangerous.

It is better to entertain an idea than to take it home to live with you for the rest of your life.

The best way to have a good idea is to have lots of ideas.

But be, as you have been, my happiness...