The flowers left thick at nightfall in the woodThis Eastertide call into mind the men, Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, shouldHave gathered them and will do never again.

The simple lack of her is more to me than others' presence.

If I should ever by chance grow richI'll buy Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,And let them all to my eldest daughter.

The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood This Eastertide call into mind the men, Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should Have gathered them and will do never again.

Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed The speculating rooks at their nests cawed And saw from elm tops, delicate as flower of grass, What we below could not see, Winter pass.

How nice it would be to be dead if only we could know we were dead. That is what I hate, the not being able to turn round in the grave and to say It is over.

As well as any bloom upon a flower I like the dust on the nettles, never lost Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.

A merely great intellect can produce prose, but not poetry, not one line.

Making war or rebellion is messy, like eating soup off a knife.

Verse is the natural speech of men, as singing is of birds'The Week's Survey, 18 June 1904

Yes; I remember Adlestrop- The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June.

Well, we're originally from Glace Bay."Grandma Elsie's eyes glittered. She was looking at one of her own, a lost Cape Bretoner in need of help and offering a new story. "Tell me all about it, dear.

The White House is giving George W. Bush intelligence briefings. You know, some of these jokes just write themselves.

I make it a rule always to believe compliments implicitly for five minutes, and to simmer gently for twenty more.

I don't know why women want any of the things men have when one the things that women have is men.

But all history has taught us the grim lesson that no nation has ever been successful in avoiding the terrors of war by refusing to defend its rights - by attempting to placate aggression.

And since the now is all there ever is in your life, your entire life unfolds as the present moment. People don't realize it, but all they ever have is "this". This moment.

Wherever your path takes you, may all your deathbed wishes come true, and may you celebrate each and every one of them many long years before your final breath.

I don't follow any kind of 'isms.' If there is one, it will be Pram-ism.

Texture is most evident where dark meets light on the turning edge and at the outer edge. Experience has taught us to assume that the areas in between have similar features.

Most students of literature can pick apart a metaphor or spot an ethnic stereotype, but not many of them can say things like: 'The poem's sardonic tone is curiously at odds with its plodding syntax.