We must remember that what a writer does to people is not necessarily what he intends to do. It may be only what people are capable of having done to… - T. S. Eliot

Our emotions
Are only “incidents”
In the effort to keep day and night together.

The poet's mind is in fact a receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feelings, phrases, images, which remain there until all the particles which can unite to form a new compound are present together.

Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones — In fact, he's remarkably fat.
He doesn't haunt pubs — he has eight or nine clubs,
For he's the St. James's Street Cat!
He's the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impeccable back.
In the whole of St. James's the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we're all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!