A good meal can somewhat repair / The eatings of slight love

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

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said; The recent buds relax and spread, Their greenness is a kind of grief. Is it that they are born again And we grow old? No, they die too. Their yearly trick of looking new Is written down in rings of grain. Yet still the unresting castles thresh In fullgrown thickness every May. Last year is dead, they seem to say, Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

I listen to money singing, it's like looking down from long French windows at a provincial town. The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad in the evening sun. It is intensely sad.

One of the quainter quirks of life is that we shall never know who dies on the dame day as we do ourselves.

I think that at the bottom of all art lies the impulse to preserve.

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