William Empson

Law makes long spokes of the short stakes of men.

It seems unpleasantly refined to put things off till someone knows.

The machinations of ambiguity are among the very roots of poetry.

You don't want madhouse and the whole thing there.

Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills. It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills.

Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end.

The heart of standing is you cannot fly.

My heart pumps yet the poison draught of you.