18 Quotes by Cecil Day-Lewis

And yet this self, containsTides, continents and stars―a myriad selves,Is small and solitary as one grass-bladePassed over by the windAmongst a myriad grasses on the prairie.

In June we picked the clover,And sea-shells in July:There was no silence at the door,No word from the sky.A hand came out of AugustAnd flicked his life away:We had not time to bargain, mope,Moralize, or pray.

See this abdicated beast, once kingOf them all, nibble his claws:Not anger enough left—no, nor despair—To break his teeth on the bars.

poetry is not—except in a very limited sense—a form of self-expression. Who on earth supposes that the pearl expresses the oyster?

Is it birthday weather for you, dear soul?Is it fine your way,With tall moon-daisies alight, and the moleBusy, and elegant hares at playBy meadow paths where once you would strollIn the flush of day?

When bullying April bruised mine eyesWith sleet-bound appetites and crudeExperiments of green, I still was wiseAnd kissed the blossoming rod.

The river this November afternoonRests in an equipoise of sun and cloud:A glooming light, a gleaming darkness shroudIts passage. All seems tranquil, all in tune.

Selfhood begins with a walking away, And love is proved in letting go.

We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.