Any memory for the most part depending on chance.

The trees are coming into leaf Like something almost being said.

Here silence stands Like heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken, Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken, Luminously-peopled air ascends; And past the poppies bluish neutral distance Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach Of shapes and shingle. Here is unfenced existence: Facing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.

I'd like to think...that people in pubs would talk about my poems

I am always trying to 'preserve' things by getting other people to read what I have written, and feel what I felt.

I wouldn't mind seeing China if I could come back the same day.

It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind,
Or not untrue and not unkind.