People Lie Because They Don't Remember Clear

Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of Illusions Buckled With A Strap Of Facts.

Lips Half-willing In A Doorway. Lips Half-singing At A Window. Eyes Half-dreaming In The Walls. Feet Half-dancing In A Kitchen. Even The Clocks Half-yawn The Hours And The Farmers Make Half-answers.

Poetry Is A Section Of River-fog And Moving Boat-lights, Delivered Between Bridges And Whistles, So One Says, 'oh!' And Another, 'how?'

Poetry Is A Packsack Of Invisible Keepsakes.

I Can Remember Only A Few Of The Strange And Curious Words Now Dead But Living And Spoken By The English People A Thousand Years Ago.