Depression is to me as daffodils were to Wordsworth.

Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.

Depression is to me as daffodils were to Wordsworth.

A writer can have only one language, if language is going to mean anything to him.

I don't think I write well - just better than anyone else.

What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over. Theyare to be happy in: Where can we live but days?

Now, helpless in the hollow of An unarmorial age, a trough Of smoke in slow suspended skeins Above their scrap of history, Only an attitude remains: Time has transfigured them into Untruth. The stone finality They hardly meant has come to be Their final blazon, and to prove Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.