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

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.

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

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 work all day, and get half-drunk at night.

Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm; And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.

Since the majority of me Rejects the majority of you, Debating ends forthwith, and we Divide.'' Philip Larkin