| The Poetry of Richard Sansom Published by The British Sansom Society | |
 
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| For My Friend I do not dream of him for dreams are made of crumpled thought, and end with their caprice blowing out the window like dust, and he is alive, though he may be spirit, parading as human, flesh and pain, though he may be Orestes, driven from oracle to oracle, though he may King and then not King, angel, then fallen angel, though he may have the love of ten thousand nights in his eyes, though he may grasp one bitter fruit after another, and though he may slip down the dark mountain then rise over it like a flock of willful birds, he is here. | |
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