The Poet Is The Complete Lover Of

The Last Faint Spark In The Self-murdered Heart, The Wounds Of The Sad Uncomprehending Dark, The Wounds Of The Baited Bear,-- The Blind And Weeping Bear Whom The Keepers Beat On His Helpless Flesh . . . The Tears Of The Hunted Hare.

Virginia Woolf, I Enjoyed Talking To Her, But Thought Nothing Of Her Writing. I Considered Her 'a Beautiful Little Knitter.

It Is Part Of The Poet's Work To Show Each Man What He Sees But Does Not Know He Sees.

I Have Never, In All My Life, Been So Odious As To Regard Myself As 'superior' To Any Living Being, Human Or Animal. I Just Walked Alone - As I Have Always Walked Alone.

Winter Is The Time For Comfort, For Good Food And Warmth, For The Touch Of A Friendly Hand And For A Talk Beside The Fire: It Is The Time For Home.