I take as metaphysical poetry that in which what is ordinarily apprehensible only by thought is brought within the grasp of feeling, or that in which what is ordinarily only felt is transformed into thought without ceasing to be feeling.

To country people Cows are mild, And flee from any stick they throw; But I’m a timid town bred child, And all the cattle seem to know.

History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors and issues.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

In the last few years everything I'd done up to sixty or so has seemed very childish.

The definition of hell is a place where nothing connects with nothing.

Do I dare disturb the universe?