After the first powerful plain manifesto The black statement of pistons, without more fuss But gliding like a queen, she leaves the station. - Stephen Spender

Since we are what we are, what shall we be But what we are? We are, we have Six feet and seventy years, to see The light, and then resign it for the grave.

Then, in a flush of rose, she woke and her eyes that opened Swam in blue through her rose flesh that dawned. From her dew of lips, the drop of one word Fell like the first of fountains: murmured 'Darling', upon my ears the song of the first bird. 'My dream becomes my dream,' she said, 'come true. I waken from you to my dream of you.' Oh, my own wakened dream then dared assume The audacity of her sleep. Our dreams Poured into each other's arms, like streams.

At these best moments a great humility fused with a great ambition: to be only what I was, but to the utmost of what I was.