On Me Your Voice Falls As They

One Of The Quainter Quirks Of Life Is That We Shall Never Know Who Dies On The Dame Day As We Do Ourselves.

I Didn't Choose Poetry: Poetry Chose Me.

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.

Dear, I Can't Write, It's All A Fantasy: A Kind Of Circling Obsession.

Get Stewed:books Are A Load Of Crap.