“Sycamore seed twirling, O, writhe to its measure! Dust swirling trims pleasure. Thorns prance in a gale. In air snow flickers, twigs tap, elms drip. Swaggering, shimmering fall, drench and towel us all! Basil Bunting
“I am shifting rivermist, not to be trusted. I do not ask anything extraordinary of myself. I like a nap after dinner and to see the seasons come round in good order. Basil Bunting
“Then is Now. The star you steer by is gone, its tremulous thread spun in the hurricane spider floss on my cheek; light from the zenith spun when the slowworm lay in her lap fifty years ago. Basil Bunting
“Brag, sweet tenor bull, descant on Rawthey’s madrigal, each pebble its part for the fells’ late spring. Basil Bunting