In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms, I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or the strut and trade of charms On the ivory stages But for the common wages Of their most secret heart. Not for the proud man apart From the raging moon I write On these spindrift pages Nor for the towering dead With their nightingales and psalms But for the lovers, their arms Round the griefs of the ages, Who pay no praise or wages Nor heed my craft or art.

Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.

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

To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.

Love drips & gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores..." -Thomas, The Force that through the green fuse drives the flower.

Why do men think you can pick love up and re-light it like a candle? Women know when love is over.

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