, CBE
, FRSL (9 August 1922 – 2 December 1985) is widely regarded as one of the great English poets of the latter half of the twentieth century. His first book of poetry, The North Ship
, was published in 1945, followed by two novels, Jill
(1946) and A Girl in Winter (1947), but he came to prominence in 1955 with the publication of his second collection of poems, The Less Deceived
, followed by The Whitsun Weddings (1964) and High Windows
(1974).
Our almost-instinct almost true:What will survive of us is love.
The glare of that much-mentioned brilliance, love, Broke out, to showIts bright incipience sailing above,Still promising to solve, and satisfy,And set unchangeably in order. So To pile them back, to cry,Was hard, without lamely admitting howIt had not done so then, and could not now.
Get stewed:Books are a load of crap.
Never such innocence,Never before or since,As changed itself to pastWithout a word — the menLeaving the gardens tidy,The thousands of marriages,Lasting a little while longer:Never such innocence again.
They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do.They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you.
The first day after a death, the new absence Is always the same; we should be careful Of each other, we should be kind While there is still time.
Deprivation is for me what daffodils were for Wordsworth.