Any Honest Housewife Would Sort Them Out,/

Haunted Gulp Down Your Wine, Old Friends Of Mine, Roar Through The Darkness, Stamp And Sing And Lay Ghost Hands On Everything, But Leave The Noonday's Warm Sunshine To Living Lads For Mirth And Wine. I Met You Suddenly Down The Street, Strangers Assume Your Phantom Faces, You Grin At Me From Daylight Places, Dead, Long Dead, I'm Ashamed To Greet Dead Men Down The Morning Street.

Nine-tenths Of English Poetic Literature Is The Result Either Of Vulgar Careerism Or Of A Poet Trying To Keep His Hand In. Most Poets Are Dead By Their Late Twenties.

This Seems To Me A Philosophical Question, And Therefore Irrelevant, Question. A Poet's Destiny Is To Love.

Through The Window I Can See Rooks Above The Cherry-tree, Sparrows In The Violet Bed, Bramble-bush And Bumble-bee, And Old Red Bracken Smoulders Still Among Boulders On The Hill, Far Too Bright To Seem Quite Dead. But Old Death, Who Can't Forget, Waits His Time And Watches Yet, Waits And Watches By The Door.

The Remarkable Thing About Shakespeare Is That He Really Is Very Good, In Spite Of All The People Who Say He Is Very Good.