Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

It is the timber of poetry that wears most surely, and there is no timber that has not strong roots among the clay and worms.

I would especially like to recourt the Muse of poetry, who ran off with the mailman four years ago, and drops me only a scribbled postcard from time to time.

[Numerous different types of book were proposed. Poetry, novels, memoirs, essays, journals, scientific works. Several historical studies were recommended, including Angus Winchester's Harvest of the Hills, an examination of the pastoral culture of the Border regions during the medieval and early modern periods. It is a book, its advocate wrote,] which details the close interrelations between work and place, as well as broadening into the history and archaeology of the landscape ... Collis's experience as a land worker during the second world war on two farms in the south-east and south-west of England. He paints a rich picture of the way in which farms were run in the years prior to the major revolution brought by mechanisation, and introduces memorable characters from amongst the substantial manual labour force even modest-sized farms needed.

Poetry should... should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

Doeg, though without knowing how or why, Made a still a blundering kind of melody; Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in; Free from all meaning whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.