Occupation: Poet Birth: August 9, 1922 Death: December 2, 1985
Life has a practice of living you, if you don't live it..
And the case of butterflies so rich it looks As if all summer settled there and died..
Selflessness is like waiting in a hospital In a badly-fitting suit on a cold wet morning. Selfishness is like listening to good jazz With drinks for ….
Living in England has no such excuse: These are my customs and establishments..
Most people know more as they get older: I give all that the cold shoulder..
Poetry is an affair of sanity, of seeing things as they are, to recreate the familiar, eternalizing the poet's own perception in unique and original ….
We should be careful / Of each other, we should be kind / While there is still time..
Only one ship is seeking us, a black-Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her backA huge and birdless silence. In her wakeNo waters breed or break..
One of the sadder things, I think, Is how our birthdays slowly sink: Presents and parties disappear, The cards grow fewer year by year, Till, when on….
I like spaghetti because you don't have to take your eyes off the book to pick about among it, it's all the same..
One of the great criticisms of poets of the past is that they said one thing and did another..
Never such innocence, Never before or since, As changed itself to past Without a word--the men Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages L….
Seriously, I think it is a grave fault in life that so much time is wasted in social matters, because it not only takes up time when you might be doi….
Joy Is for the simple or the great to feel, Neither of which we are..
I wouldn't mind seeing China if I could come back the same day..
Many famous feet have trod Sublunary paths, and famous hands have weighed The strength they have against the strength they need; And famous lips inte….
Why should I let the toad work Squat on my life? Can't I use my wit as a pitchfork And drive the brute off? Six days of the week it soils With its si….
Get stewed:Books are a load of crap..
I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry….
I never think of poetry or the poetry scene, only separate poems written by individuals..
Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs: Despite the artful tensions of the calendar, The life insurance, the tabled fertility rites, The costl….