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

Above all, though, children are linked to adults by the simple fact that they are in process of turning into them. For this they may be forgiven much. Children are bound to be inferior to adults, or there is no incentive to grow up.

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

I'm terrified of the thought of time passing (or whatever is meant by that phrase) whether I 'do' anything or not. In a way I may believe, deep down, that doing nothing acts as a brake on 'time's - it doesn't of course. It merely adds the torment of having done nothing, when the time comes when it really doesn't matter if you've done anything or not.

How little our careers express what lies in us, and yet how much time they take up. It's sad, really.

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

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