Marriage, Like Money, Is Still

Children Born Of Fairy Stock Never Need For Shirt Or Frock, Never Want For Food Or Fire, Always Get Their Heart's Desire.

There's A Cool Web Of Language Winds Us In, Retreat From Too Much Joy Or Too Much Fear: We Grow Sea-green At Last And Coldly Die In Brininess And Volubility.

New Beginnings And New Shoots Spring Again From Hidden Roots Pull Or Stab Or Cut Or Burn, Love Must Ever Yet Return.

Since The Age Of 15 Poetry Has Been My Ruling Passion And I Have Never Intentionally Undertaken Any Task Or Formed Any Relationship That Seemed Inconsistent With Poetic Principles; Which Has Sometimes Won Me The Reputation Of An Eccentric.

Any Honest Housewife Would Sort Them Out,/ Having A Nose For Fish, An Eye For Apples.