I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.

What is done is done for the love of it- or not really done at all.

We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.

But not gold in commercial quantities, Just enough gold to make the engagement rings And marriage rings of those who owned the farm. What gold more innocent could one have asked for?

If one by one we counted people out

There are few sorrows, however poignant, in which a good income is of no avail.

I am not a nature poet. There is almost always a person in my poems.