“As was the custom in such cases, the pear tree was charged with murder and sentenced to be uprooted and burned.”

“Dust in a cloud, blinding weather,Drums that rattle and roar!A mother and daughter stood togetherBeside their cottage door.'Mother, the heavens are bright like brass,The dust is shaken high,With labouring breath the soldiers pass,Their lips are cracked and dry.''Mother, I'll throw them apples down,I'll bring them pails of water.'The mother turned with an angry frownHolding back her daughter.'But mother, see, they faint with thirst,They march away to die,''Ah, sweet, had I but known at firstTheir throats are always dry.''There is no water can supply themIn western streams that flow,There is no fruit can satisfy themOn orchard trees that grow.''Once in my youth I gave, poor fool,A soldier apples and water,So may I die before you coolYour father's drouth, my daughter.”

“Manticor in Arabia(The manticors of the montainesMighte feed them on thy braines.--Skelton.)Thick and scented daisies spreadWhere with surface dull like leadArabian pools of slime inviteManticors down from neighbouring heightTo dip heads, to cool fiery bloodIn oozy depths of sucking mud.Sing then of ringstraked manticor,Man-visaged tiger who of yoreHeld whole Arabian waste in feeWith raging pride from sea to sea,That every lesser tribe would flyThose armed feet, that hooded eye;Till preying on himself at lastManticor dwindled, sank, was passedBy gryphon flocks he did disdain.Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reignIn ancient keep of manticorAgreed old foe can rise no more.Only here from lakes of slimeDrinks manticor and bides due time:Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon treeMust mount his pyre and burn and beRenewed again, till in such hourAs seventh Phoenix flames to powerAnd lifts young feathers, overniceFrom scented pool of steamy spiceShall manticor his sway restoreAnd rule Arabian plains once more.”

“To Juan at the Winter Solstice There is one story and one story onlyThat will prove worth your telling,Whether as learned bard or gifted child;To it all lines or lesser gauds belongThat startle with their shiningSuch common stories as they stray into.Is it of trees you tell, their months and virtues,Or strange beasts that beset you,Of birds that croak at you the Triple will?Or of the Zodiac and how slow it turnsBelow the Boreal Crown,Prison to all true kings that ever reigned?Water to water, ark again to ark,From woman back to woman:So each new victim treads unfalteringlyThe never altered circuit of his fate,Bringing twelve peers as witnessBoth to his starry rise and starry fall.Or is it of the Virgin's silver beauty,All fish below the thighs?She in her left hand bears a leafy quince;When, with her right hand she crooks a finger, smiling,How many the King hold back?Royally then he barters life for love.Or of the undying snake from chaos hatched,Whose coils contain the ocean,Into whose chops with naked sword he springs,Then in black water, tangled by the reeds,Battles three days and nights,To be spewed up beside her scalloped shore?Much snow if falling, winds roar hollowly,The owl hoots from the elder,Fear in your heart cries to the loving-cup:Sorrow to sorrow as the sparks fly upward.The log groans and confesses:There is one story and one story only.Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling,Do not forget what flowersThe great boar trampled down in ivy time.Her brow was creamy as the crested wave,Her sea-blue eyes were wildBut nothing promised that is not performed.”

“When the immense drugged universe explodesIn a cascade of unendurable colourAnd leaves us gasping naked,This is no more than the ectasy of chaos:Hold fast, with both hands, to that royal loveWhich alone, as we know certainly, restoresFragmentation into true being.Ecstasy of Chaos”

“There's no money in poetry, but there's no poetry in money, either.”

“The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he really is very good, in spite of all the people who say he is very good.”