I wonder if rooms in an insane asylum have Do Not Disturb signs for the doors. I should hope not, because knock or no knock, every occupant in those rooms is already disturbed.

Get away from my house and all its rooms that echo, all the rooms I don’t enter anymore.

A poem with grandly conceived and executed stanzas, such as one of Keats’s odes, should be like an enfilade of rooms in a palace: one proceeds, with eager anticipation, from room to room.

The Mullahs and monks, they must worship you instead of empty rooms.

It was unfair that people could pretend to be one thing when they were really something else. That they would get you on their side and then do nothing but fail, and fail, and fail...

The rooms of his apartment were full with the dog home again, convalescing. He was satisfied to know, even when she was out of sight, that somewhere in the apartment she was sleeping or eating...

…if it weren’t for you, mornings wouldn’t be so comforting – slippers wouldn’t scrape through the rooms of my heart…

And the supreme mystery was simply this: here was one room; there another. Did religion solve that, or love?

She lost her gripHeard a voice so familiar, she trippedOver the 1000 promises that lay on the floor1000 and 1…there’s hardly room for moreAnd everyone seems to know betterEveryone seems to understand so much…but forget...

I looked around at the rooms that I did not see as rooms but more as a landscape for my emotions, a biography of memory.

I was shown into a room. A red room. Red wallpaper, red curtains, red carpet. They said it was a sitting-room, but I don’t know why they’d decided to confine its purpose just to sitting....