Geoffrey Hill Quotes

September fattens on vines. Roses flake from the wall. The smoke of harmless fires drifts to my eyes. This is plenty. This is more than enough.

fierce tea making

in time of war,

Platonic England, house of solitudes,
rests in its laurels and its injured stone

Thus I grind to conclusion.

Autumn resumes the land, ruffles the woods
with smoky wings, entangles them.

Take accessible to mean / acceptable, accommodating, openly servile.

Last days, last things, loom on: I write / to astonish myself. So much for all / plain speaking...

Evil is not good's absence but gravity's
everlasting bedrock and its fatal chains
inert, violent, the suffrage of our days.

Who now would thrust enquiry on / Beyond necessity of desire?

Even now, I tell myself, there is a language / to which I might speak and which / would rightly hear me ...

Dig -- the mostly uncouth -- language of grace.

As estimated, you died. Things marched,
sufficient, to that end.
Just so much Zyklon and leather, patented
terror, so many routine cries.

Public toilets have a duty to be accessible, poetry does not.