And immediately Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

Everyone should be forcibly transplanted to another continent from their family at the age of three.

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, / Shaped to the comfort of the last to go / As if to win them back

I think we got much better poetry when it was all regarded as sinful or subversive, and you had to hide it under the cushion when somebody came in.

And the case of butterflies so rich it looks As if all summer settled there and died.

All the unhurried day / Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.

Deprivation is for me what daffodils were for Wordsworth.