Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies.

Rhianon, he said, hold my hand, Rhianon. She did not hear him, but stood over his bed and fixed him with an unbroken sorrow. Hold my hand, he said, and then: why are your putting the sheet over my face?

The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it.

He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest.

... an ugly, lovely town ... crawling, sprawling ... by the side of a long and splendid curving shore. This sea-town was my world.

The best poem is that whose worked-upon unmagical passages come closest, in texture and intensity, to those moments of magical accident.

When one burns one's bridges, what a very nice fire it makes.