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.

I am beginning to think of the human imagination as a fruit machine on which victories are rare and separated by much vain expense, and represent a rare alignment of mental and spiritual qualities that normally are quite at odds.

I didn't choose poetry: poetry chose me.

Death: the anaesthetic from which none come round.

I like spaghetti because you don't have to take your eyes off the book to pick about among it, it's all the same.

I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action

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