Parting Is A Training Streamer,lingering Like Leaves

Death: The Anaesthetic From Which None Come Round.

Only In Books The Flat And Final Happens, Only In Dreams We Meet And Interlock.

As A Guiding Principle I Believe That Every Poem Must Be Its Own Sole Freshly Created Universe, And Therefore Have No Belief N 'tradition' Or A Common Myth-kitty Or Casual Allusions In Poems To Other Poems Or Poets, Which Last I Find Unpleasantly Like The Talk Of Literary Understrappers Letting You See They Know The Right People.

I Wouldn't Mind Seeing China If I Could Come Back The Same Day.

One Of The Sadder Things, I Think, Is How Our Birthdays Slowly Sink: Presents And Parties Disappear, The Cards Grow Fewer Year By Year, Till, When One Reaches Sixty-five, How Many Care We're Still Alive?