I am never going to write for the sake of writing.

I am never going to write for the sake of writing.

My own curiosity and interest are insatiable.

Thick February mists cling heavily To the dead earth and to each leafless tree, And closer down upon the hilltops draw, Dull forecasts there of bright, sure-coming spring; Yet the heart gathers hope and strange delight From this dear, unlovely, wished-for sight Of leaden-misted twilights lengthening.

Until we are all free, we are none of us free.

Life's sharpest rapture is surcease of pain.

Still ours the dance, the feast, the glorious Psalm, The mystic lights of emblem, and the Word.