Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.

Close, close all night the lovers keep. They turn together in their sleep, Close as two pages in a book that read each other in the dark. Each knows all the other knows, learned by heart from head to toes.

Being a poet is one of the unhealthier jobs--no regular hours, so many temptations!

All my life I have lived and behaved very much like the sandpiper - just running down the edges of different countries and continents, 'looking for something'.

Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too?

And as to experience-well, think how little some good poets have had, or how much some bad ones have.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.