The Breath That Sharpens Life Is Life

I Think We Got Much Better Poetry When It Was All Regarded As Sinful Or Subversive, And You Had To Hide It Under The Cushion When Somebody Came In.

To Write You Must Be Warm, Fed, Loved And Sober.

Living In England Has No Such Excuse: These Are My Customs And Establishments.

The Trees Are Coming Into Leaf Like Something Almost Being Said.

And Immediately Rather Than Words Comes The Thought Of High Windows: The Sun-comprehending Glass, And Beyond It, The Deep Blue Air, That Shows Nothing, And Is Nowhere, And Is Endless.