Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.

Nothing is so beautiful as spring - when weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush; Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring the ear, it strikes like lightning to hear him sing.

I find myself both as man and as myself something more determined and distinctive, at pitch, more distinctive and higher pitched than anything else I see.

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night!

Look at the stars! Look, look up at the skies! Oh look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air! The bright boroughs, the circle-citadels there!

Let Him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east.

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame