An unmanly sort of man whose love life seems to have been largely confined to crying in laps and playing mouse.

As I walked out one evening, Walking down Bristol Street, The crowds upon the pavement Were fields of harvest wheat. And down by the brimming river I heard a lover sing Under an arch of the railway: 'Love has no ending. 'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you Till China and Africa meet, And the river jumps over the mountain And the salmon sing in the street, 'I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.

No good opera plot can be sensible, for people do not sing when they are feeling sensible.

As a poet, there is only one political duty, and that is to defend one's language from corruption.

History is, strictly speaking, the study of questions; the study of answers belongs to anthropology and sociology.

You owe it to all of us all get on with what you're good at.

Men will pay large sums to whores for telling them they are not bores.