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

An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you do.

This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.

I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.

And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.

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

I sang in my chains like the sea