The dreamer in her Had fallen in love with me and she did not know it. That moment the dreamer in me Fell in love with her and I knew it.

The sea cries with its meaningless voice, Treating alike its dead and its living.

One day God felt he ought to give his workshop a spring clean... It was amazing what ragged bits and pieces came from under his workbench as he swept….

So we found the end of our journey. So we stood, alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light..

Fishing provides that connection with the whole living world. It gives you the opportunity of being totally immersed, turning back into yourself in a….

Show him every dawn & read to him endlessly..

Do as you like with me. I'm your parcel. I have only our address on me. Open me, or readdress me..

Where white is black and black is white, I won..

Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely..

The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess?.

The deeps are cold: In that darkness camaraderie does not hold: Nothing touches but, clutching, devours..

where are the gods the gods hate us the gods have run away the gods have hidden in holes the gods are dead of the plague they rot and stink too there….

The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the….

And that's how we measure out our real respect for people—by the degree of feeling they can register, the voltage of life they can carry and tolerate….

...imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at….

There is no better way to know us Than as two wolves, come separately to a wood..

What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life..

The brassy wood-pigeons Bubble their colourful voices, and the sun Rises upon a world well-tried and old..

You are who you choose to be..

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust..

I shall also take you forth and carve our names together in a yew tree, haloed with stars..