So The Self Under The Eye Lies,

Stilled Legendary Depth: It Was As Deep As England. It Held Pike Too Immense To Stir, So Immense And Old That Past Nightfall I Dared Not Cast.

The Brassy Wood-pigeons Bubble Their Colourful Voices, And The Sun Rises Upon A World Well-tried And Old.

What’s Writing Really About? It’s About Trying To Take Fuller Possession Of The Reality Of Your Life.

The World's Decay Where The Wind's Hands Have Passed, And My Head, Worn Out With Love, At Rest In My Hands, And My Hands Full Of Dust.

The Sea Cries With Its Meaningless Voice, Treating Alike Its Dead And Its Living