Let mortals beware of wordsFor with words we lieCan speak peaceWhen we mean warBut song is trueLet music for peaceBe the paradigmFor peace means changeAt the right time

But in my arms till break of dayLet the living creature lie,Mortal, guilty, but to meThe entirely beautiful.

When the Sex War ended with the slaughter of the Grandmothers, / They found a bachelor's baby suffocating under them; / Somebody called him George and that was the end of it: / They hitched him up to the Army.

A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.

If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving be me

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.