I Worshipped Dead Men For Their Strength,

See The Last Orange Roses, How They Blow / Deeper And Heavier Than In Their Prime, / In One Defiant Flame Before They Go.

Prose Is A Poor Thing, A Poor Inadequate Thing, Compared With Poetry Which Says So Much More In Shorter Time.

Flowers Really Do Intoxicate Me.

All The Small Squalors Of The Body, Known Only To Oneself, Insignificant In Youth, Easily Dismissed, In Old Age Became Dominant And Entered Into Fulfilment Of The Tyranny They Had Always Threatened.

To Hope For Paradise Is To Live In Paradise, A Very Different Thing From Actually Getting There.