Quotes from Stephen Spender

Deep in the winter plain, two armies Dig their machinery, to destroy each other. Men freeze and hunger. No one is given leave On either side, except the dead, and wounded.

Paul Valery speaks of the 'une ligne donnee' of a poem. One line is given to the poet by God or by nature, the rest he has to discover for himself.

If Rilke cut himself shaving, he would bleed poetry.

An English poet writes, I think, just for people who are interested in poetry. An American poet writes, and feels that everyone ought to appreciate this. Then he has a deep sense of grievance . . .

Poetry cannot take sides except with life.

History is the ship carrying living memories to the future.

I think continually of those who were truly great...Born of the sun they traveled a short while towards the sun, and left the vivid air signed with their honor.

All that you can imagine you already know.

Religion stands, the Church blocking the sun.

I think of those who were truly great. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.

Death to the killers, bringing light to life.

When a child, my dreams rode on your wishes, I was your son, high on your horse, My mind a top whipped by the lashes Of your rhetoric, windy of course.

The only true hope for civilization-the conviction of the individual that his inner life can affect outward events and that, whether or not he does so he is responsible for them.

Paint here no draped despairs, no saddening clouds, Where the soul rests, proclaims eternity. But let the wrong cry out as raw as wounds, This Time forgets and never heals, far less transcends.

Bright clasp of her whole hand around my finger My daughter as we walk together now. All my life I'll feel a ring invisibly Circle this bone with shining When she is grown.

For I had expected always Some brightness to hold in trust, Some final innocence To save from dust

I think continually of those who were truly great…The names of those who in their lives fought for life,Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.Born of the sun they traveled a short while towards the sun,And left the vivid air signed with their honor.

When a child, my dreams rode on your wishes, I was your son, high on your horse, My mind a top whipped by the lashes Of your rhetoric, windy of course.

He's still half with usConniving slyly, yet he knows he's goneInto that cellar where they'll never find him,Happy to be alone, his last work done,Word freed from world, into a different wood.

If Rilke cut himself shaving, he would bleed poetry.

History is the ship carrying living memories to the future.

All that you can imagine you already know

Great poetry is always written by somebody straining to go beyond what he can do.

I'm struggling at the end to get out of the valley of hectoring youth, journalistic middle age, imposture, moneymaking, public relations, bad writing, mental confusion.