“It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.” — John Masefield Quote

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.

Once in a century a man may be ruined or made insufferable by praise. But surely once in a minute something generous dies for want of it.

Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain.

Since the printing press came into being, poetry has ceased to be the delight of the whole community of man; it has become the amusement and delight of the few.

It is too maddening. I've got to fly off, right now, to some devilish navy yard, three hours in a seasick steamer, and after being heartily sick, I'll have to speak three times, and then I'll be sick coming home. Still, who would not be sick for England?

Our priorities are out of whack. We spend too much to protect birds and fish at the expense of people.

I look out of this window and I think this is a cosmos, this is a huge creation, this is one small corner of it. The trees and birds and everything else and I'm part of it. I didn't ask to be put here, I've been lucky in finding myself here.

At one point, I had close to 100 birds.

Sound sounds are terrible in the city, but it's great to listen and to walk and listen to people talk to each other. There are birds. You hear spring. I like listening to the city.

Pretty much the day I stopped being laureate, the poems that had been few and far between came back to me, like birds in the evening nesting in a tree.