The Progress Of Any Writer Is Marked

The Progress Of Any Writer Is Marked By Those Moments When He Manages To Outwit His Own Inner Police System.

I Shall Also Take You Forth And Carve Our Names Together In A Yew Tree, Haloed With Stars.

The Brassy Wood-pigeons Bubble Their Colourful Voices, And The Sun Rises Upon A World Well-tried And Old.

The Deeps Are Cold: In That Darkness Camaraderie Does Not Hold: Nothing Touches But, Clutching, Devours.

The Real Mystery Is This Strange Need. Why Can't We Just Hide It And Shut Up? Why Do We Have To Blab? Why Do Human Beings Need To Confess?