Why does my muse only speak when she is uhnhappy? She does not, I only listen when I am unhappy.

Truth is far and flat, and fancy is fiery; and truth is cold, and people feel the cold, and they may wrap themselves against it in fancies that are fiery, but they should not call them facts; and, generally, poets do not; they are shrewd, they feel the cold, too, but they know a hawk from a handsaw, a fact from a fancy, as none knows better.

But one wants the idea of Death, you know, as something large and unknowable, something that allows a person to stretch himself out. Especially one wants it if one is tired. Or perhaps what one wants is simply a release from sensation, from all consciousness for ever.

This is the simplest of all thoughts, that Death must come when we call, although he is a god.

Death's not a separation or alteration or parting; it's just a one-handled door.

My Muse sits forlorn She wishes she had not been born She sits in the cold No word she says is ever told.

I like to see cats in movement. A galloping cat is a fine sight. See it cross the road in a streak, cursed by the drivers of motor cars and buses, dodging the butcher's bicycle, coming safe to the kerb and bellying under its home gate.