The Trees Are Coming Into Leaf Like

Only One Ship Is Seeking Us, A Black-sailed Unfamiliar, Towing At Her Backa Huge And Birdless Silence. In Her Wakeno Waters Breed Or Break.

One Of The Great Criticisms Of Poets Of The Past Is That They Said One Thing And Did Another.

Death: The Anaesthetic From Which None Come Round.

I Am Not Sure, Once A Poet Has Found Out What Has Been Written Already, And How It Was Written - Once, In Short, He Has Learnt His Trade - That He Should Bother With Literature At All. Poetry Is Not Like Surgery, A Technique That Can Be Copied. Every Operation The Poet Performs Is Unique, And Need Never Be Done Again.

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