The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.

History must stay open, it is all humanity.

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.

A profusion of pink roses being ragged in the rain speaks to me of all gentleness and its enduring.

beauty’ is related not to ‘loveliness’ but to a state in which reality plays a part.

No wreaths please - especially no hothouse flowers. Some common memento is better, something he prized and is known by: his old clothes - a few books perhaps.