I Don't Think I Write Well -

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

I Listen To Money Singing, It's Like Looking Down From Long French Windows At A Provincial Town. The Slums, The Canal, The Churches Ornate And Mad In The Evening Sun. It Is Intensely Sad.

But Superstition, Like Belief, Must Die.

Life Is First Boredom, Then Fear.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live. They Come, They Wake Us Time And Time Over. Theyare To Be Happy In: Where Can We Live But Days?