And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

I'm Sure That Writing Isn't A Craft, That Is, Something For Which You Learn The Skills And Go On Turning Out. It Must Come From Some Deep Impulse, Deep Inspiration. That Can't Be Taught, It Can't Be What You Use In Teaching.

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.