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. — Geoffrey Hill Copy Share Image
“Recall the cold Of Towton on Palm Sunday before dawn, Wakefield, Tewkesbury : fastidious trumpets Shrilling into the ruck ; some trampled Acres, parched,… — Geoffrey Hill Copy Share Image
Platonic England, house of solitudes, rests in its laurels and its injured stone — Geoffrey Hill Copy Share Image
As estimated, you died. Things marched, sufficient, to that end. Just so much Zyklon and leather, patented terror, so many routine cries. — Geoffrey Hill Copy Share Image
We are difficult. Human beings are difficult. We're difficult to ourselves, we're difficult to each other. And we are mysteries to ourselves, we are… — Geoffrey Hill Copy Share Image
We are difficult. Human beings are difficult. We’re difficult to ourselves, we’re difficult to each other. — Geoffrey Hill Copy Share Image
“Not as we are but as we must appear, contractual ghosts of pity; not as we desire life, but as they would have us… — Geoffrey Hill Copy Share Image
“I wouldn't mind dispatching all 3 of my room mates vile felines in this apartment. Nasty beasts. I'm just afraid I wouldn't be able… — Geoffrey Hill Copy Share Image
I think art has a right — not an obligation — to be difficult if it wishes. And, since people generally go on from… — Geoffrey Hill Copy Share Image
Autumn resumes the land, ruffles the woods with smoky wings, entangles them. — Geoffrey Hill Copy Share Image
