I like owls. I admire their intransigent spirit. I have respected them deeply ever since I met a baby owl in a wood, when it fell over dead, apparently from sheer temper, because I dared to approach it. It defied me first, and then died. I have never forgotten the horror and shame I experienced when that soft fluffy thing (towards which I had nothing but the most humanitarian motives) fell dead from rage at my feet.

My garden all is overblown with roses,/ My spirit all is overblown with rhyme.

Things were not tragic for us then, because although we cared passionately we didn't care deeply.

There's no beginning to the farmer's year, / Only recurrent patterns on a scroll / Unwinding...

Travel is a private pleasure, since it consists entirely of things felt and things seen.

There is nothing more lovely in life than the union of two people whose love for one another has grown through the years, from the small acorn of passion, into a great rooted tree

The writer catches the changes of his mind on the hop. Growth is exciting; growth is dynamic and alarming. Growth of the soul, growth of the mind.