Dear, I Can't Write, It's All A

Life Is First Boredom, Then Fear. Whether Or Not We Use It, It Goes, And Leaves What Something Hidden From Us Chose, And Age, And Then The Only End Of Age.

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

How Little Our Careers Express What Lies In Us, And Yet How Much Time They Take Up. It's Sad, Really.

It Is Fatal To Decide, Intellectually, What Good Poetry Is Because You Are Then In Honour Bound To Try To Write It, Instead Of The Poems That Only You Can Write.

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.