People Who Are Always Thinking Of The

Poetry Is First Of All A Way Of Life And Only Secondarily A Way Of Writing.

O Cruel Cloudless Space, And Pale Bare Ground Where The Poor Infant Lies! Why Do We Feel Restored As In A Sacramental Place? Here Mystery Is Artifice, And Here A Vision Of Such Peace Is Stored, Healing Flows From It Through Our Eyes.

It Always Comes Back To The Same Necessity: Go Deep Enough And There Is A Bedrock Of Truth, However Hard.

Gardening Is A Madness, A Folly That Does Not Go Away With Age. Quite The Contrary.

I Have Never Written A Book That Was Not Born Out Of A Question I Needed To Answer For Myself.