One mark of good verse is surprise.

Too many people in the modern world view poetry as a luxury, not a necessity like petrol. But to me it’s the oil of life.

Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans. Spare their women for Thy Sake, And if that is not too easy, We will pardon Thy Mistake. But, gracious Lord, whate’er shall be, Don’t let anyone bomb me.

And behind their frail partitions Business women lie and soak, Seeing through the draughty skylight Flying clouds and railway smoke. Rest you there, poor unbelov’d ones, Lap your loneliness in heat, All too soon the tiny breakfast, Trolley-bus and windy street!

And I think it was the outline of that church tower at Belaugh against the sky which gave me a passion for churches so that every church I’ve past since I’ve wanted to stop and look in.

I don’t think I am any good. If I thought I was any good, I wouldn’t be.

People’s backyards are much more interesting than their front gardens, and houses that back on to railways are public benefactors.

And London shops on Christmas Eve Are strung with silver bells and flowers As hurrying clerks the City leave To pigeon-haunted classic towers, And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky.

Imprisoned in a cage of sound, even the trivial seems profound.

Hymn tunes are the nearest we’ve got to English folk music...