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

Hands have not tears to flow.

Though they go mad they shall be sane, though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; though lovers be lost love shall not; and death shall have no dominion.

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

My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose; and all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows. I think that if I touched the earth, it would crumble; it is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream.

My birthday began with the water - Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.

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