Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit, and play with similes, Loose types of things through all degrees.

Thou unassuming Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace, Which Love makes for thee!

The light that never was, on sea or land, The consecration, and the poet's dream.

No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery.

I write to discover what I think. After all, the bars aren't open that early.

I'm in a constant process of thinking about things. I'll think about things for thirty or forty years before I'll write it.

My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course. Ball-point pens are only good for filling …