I May Say That I Think Greed

If Certain Critics And Poetasters Had Their Way, 'ordinary Piety' And Its Child, Dullness, Would Be The Masters Of Poetry.

Our Hearts Seemed Safe In Our Breasts And Sang To The Light The Marrow In The Bone We Dreamed Was Safe. . . The Blood In The Veins, The Sap In The Tree Were Springs Of Deity.

Another Little Drink Wouldn't Do Us Any Harm.

The Trouble With Most Englishwomen Is That They Will Dress As If They Had Been A Mouse In A Previous Incarnation... They Do Not Want To Attract Attention.

The Poet Is The Complete Lover Of Mankind.