I Didn't Want To Be Like Yeats;

I Think That What Happens In My Poetic Work In The Future Will Depend On My Being Knocked In The Face, And Thrown Flat, And Given Cancer, And All Kinds Of Other Things Short Of Senile Dementia.

Life, Friends, Is Boring. We Must Not Say So.

I Cry. Evil Dissolves, & Love, Like Foam; That Love. Prattle Of Children Powers Me Home, My Heart Claps Like The Swan's Under A Frenzy Of Who Love Me & Who Shine.

Something Has Been Said For Sobriety But Very Little.

This World Is Gradually Becoming A Place Where I Do Not Care To Be Any More.