"Much water has flown under Tiber's bridges, carrying away splendour and mystery from Rome, since the pontificate of Pius XII. The essentials, I know, remain firmly entrenched and I find the post-Conciliar Mass simpler and generally better than the Tridentine; but the banality and vulgarity of the translations which have ousted the sonorous Latin and little Greek are of a super-market quality which is quite unacceptable. Hand-shaking and embarrassed smiles or smirks have replaced the older courtesies; kneeling is out, queueing is in, and the general tone is rather like a BBC radio broadcast for tiny tots (so however will they learn to put away childish things?). The clouds of incense have dispersed, together with many hidebound, blinkered and repressive attitudes, and we are left with social messages of an almost over-whelming progressiveness. The Church has proved she is not moribund. "All shall be well," I feel, "and all manner of things shall be well," so long as the God who is worshipped is the God of all ages, past and to come, and not the idol of Modernity, so venerated by some of our bishops, priests and mini-skirted nuns."

"Our hearts seemed safe in our breasts and sang to the Light — The marrow in the bone We dreamed was safe. . . the blood in the veins, the sap in the tree Were springs of Deity."

"Each of them is inhabited by a bland demon, as the German metaphysicians used to call that which gets into a man and makes him creative, not so forcibly that it turns them away from criticism, but valid enough to give them the right to speak with the authority of artists."

"Her tall figure, swathed in black, looking like some strange eccentric bird... she seemed like an ageing princess come home from exile."

"I can believe things that are true and I can believe things that aren't true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they're true or not. … I believe that the greatest poets of the last century were Edith Sitwell and Don Marquis, that jade is dried dragon sperm, and that thousands of years ago in a former life I was a one-armed Siberian shaman. … I believe that life is a game, that life is a cruel joke, and that life is what happens when you're alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy it."

"Small things I handled and caressed and loved. I let the stars assume the whole of night.But the big answers clamoured to be moved Into my life. Their great audacity Shouted to be acknowledged and believed."

"I'm afraid I'm being an awful nuisance."

"Good taste is the worst vice ever invented."

"I am resigned to the fact that people who don't know me loathe me. Perhaps it is because I am a woman writing poetry. It must be annoying to a man who wants to write to see this horrid old lady who can."

"The aim of flattery is to soothe and encourage us by assuring us of the truth of an opinion we have already formed about ourselves."

"I wouldn't dream of following a fashion... how could one be a different person every three months?"

"People are usually made Dames for virtues I do not possess."

"I am patient with stupidity but not with those who are proud of it."

"There are people, also, who cannot believe that beauty and gaiety are a part of goodness. When we think of cruelty, we must try to remember the stupidity, the envy, the frustration from which it has arisen."

"I'm not the man to baulk at a low smell, I’m not the man to insist on asphodel. This sounds like a He-fellow, don’t you think? It sounds like that. I belch, I bawl, I drink."

"Vulgarity is, in reality, nothing but a modern, chic, pert descendant of the goddess Dullness."

"Eccentricity is not, as dull people would have us believe, a form of madness. It is often a kind of innocent pride, and the man of genius and the aristocrat are frequently regarded as eccentrics because genius and aristocrat are entirely unafraid of and uninfluenced by the opinions and vagaries of the crowd."

"The public will believe anything, so long as it is not founded on truth."

"The living blind and seeing Dead together lie As if in love . . . There was no more hating then, And no more love; Gone is the heart of Man."

"Mother or Murderer, you have given or taken life — Now all is one!"

"Remember only this of our hopeless love That never till Time is done Will the fire of the heart and the fire of the mind be one."

"The flames of the heart consumed me, and the mind Is but a foolish wind."

"The great gold planet that is the mourning heat of the Sun Is greater than all gold, more powerful Than the tawny body of a Lion that fire consumes Like all that grows or leaps... so is the heart More powerful than all dust."

"See, see where Christ's blood streames in the firmament: It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart That holds the fires of the world, — dark-smirched with pain As Caesar's laurel crown. Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man Was once a child who among beasts has lain — "Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee.""

"Still falls the Rain — Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man's wounded Side: He bears in His Heart all wounds, — those of the light that died, The last faint spark In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark..."

"Still falls the Rain At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross. Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us —"

"Still falls the Rain — Dark as the world of man, black as our loss — Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails Upon the Cross."

"Oh how the Vacancy Laughed at them rushing by. "Turn again, flesh and brain, Only yourselves again! How far above the ape Differing in each shape, You with your regular Meaningless circles are!""

"White as a winding sheet, Masks blowing down the street: Moscow, Paris London, Vienna — all are undone. The drums of death are mumbling, rumbling, and tumbling, Mumbling, rumbling, and tumbling, The world's floors are quaking, crumbling and breaking."

"Within your magic web of hair, lies furled The fire and splendour of the ancient world; The dire gold of the comet's wind-blown hair; The songs that turned to gold the evening air When all the stars of heaven sang for joy."

"Tall windows show Infinity; And, hard reality, The candles weep and pry and dance Like lives mocked at by Chance. The rooms are vast as Sleep within; When once I ventured in, Chill Silence, like a surging sea, Slowly enveloped me."

"The busy chatter of the heat Shrilled like a parakeet; And shuddering at the noonday light The dust lay dead and whiteAs powder on a mummy's face, Or fawned with simian grace Round booths with many a hard bright toy And wooden brittle joy:The cap and bells of Time the Clown That, jangling, whistled down Young cherubs hidden in the guise Of every bird that flies;And star-bright masks for youth to wear, Lest any dream that fare — Bright pilgrim — past our ken, should see Hints of Reality."

"I have often wished I had time to cultivate modesty... But I am too busy thinking about myself."

"Hot water is my native element. I was in it as a baby, and I have never seemed to get out of it ever since."

"Let us speak of our madness. We are always being called mad. If we are mad — we and our brothers in America who are walking hand in hand with us in the vanguard of progress — at least we are mad in company with most of our great predecessors and all the most intelligent foreigners. Beethoven, Schumann, and Wagner, Shelley, Blake, Keats, Coleridge, Wordsworth were all mad in turn. We shall be proud to join them in the Asylum to which they are now consigned."

"I am one of those unhappy persons who inspire bores to the greatest flights of art."

"I wish the government would put a tax on pianos for the incompetent."

"Why not be oneself? That is the whole secret of a successful appearance. If one is a greyhound, why try to look like a Pekingese?"

"A great many people now reading and writing would be better employed keeping rabbits."

"My personal hobbies are reading, listening to music, and silence."

"The trouble with most Englishwomen is that they will dress as if they had been a mouse in a previous incarnation... they do not want to attract attention."

"It is a part of the poet's work to show each man what he sees but does not know he sees."

"I am an unpopular electric eel in a pool of catfish."

"The poet is a brother speaking to a brother of "a moment of their other lives" — a moment that had been buried beneath the dust of the busy world."

"As for the usefulness of poetry, its uses are many. It is the deification of reality. It should make our days holy to us. The poet should speak to all men, for a moment, of that other life of theirs that they have smothered and forgotten."

"My poems are hymns of praise to the glory of life."

"I have taken this step because I want the discipline, the fire and the authority of the Church. I am hopelessly unworthy of it, but I hope to become worthy."

"Ah, Lalage! while life is ours, Hoard not thy beauty rose and white, But pluck the pretty, fleeting flowers That deck our little path of light: For all too soon we twain shall tread The bitter pastures of the dead: Estranged, sad spectres of the night."

"Dowson seemed gentle, affectionate, drifting. His poetry shows how sincerely he felt the fascination of religion, but his religion had certainly no dogmatic outline, being but a desire for a condition of virginal ecstasy. If it is true, as Arthur Symons, his very close friend, has written, that he loved the restaurant-keeper's daughter for her youth, one may be almost certain that he sought from religion some similar quality, something of that which the angels find who move perpetually, as Swedenborg has said, towards "the dayspring of their youth.""