The Only Way Round Is Through.

The Best Way Out Is Always Through.

So Was I Once Myself A Swinger Of Birches. And So I Dream Of Going Back To Be.

What Is Done Is Done For The Love Of It- Or Not Really Done At All.

I Have Just Been To A City In The West, A City Full Of Poets, A City They Have Made Safe For Poets. The Whole City Is So Lovely That You Do Not Have To Write It Up To Make It Poetry; It Is Ready-made For You. But, I Don't Know - The Poetry Written In That City Might Not Seem Like Poetry If Read Outside Of The City. It Would Be Like The Jokes Made When You Were Drunk; You Have To Get Drunk Again To Appreciate Them.

Poetry Is What Is Lost In Translation. It Is Also What Is Lost In Interpretation.