Walk With The Dead For Fear Of

Death: The Anaesthetic From Which None Come Round.

And The Case Of Butterflies So Rich It Looks As If All Summer Settled There And Died.

Deprivation Is For Me What Daffodils Were For Wordsworth.

Living In England Has No Such Excuse: These Are My Customs And Establishments.

I Think That At The Bottom Of All Art Lies The Impulse To Preserve.