Quotes from John Betjeman

Lovers of Norfolk churches can never agree which is the best and I think one is either a Salle or a Cawston man.

Old men who never cheated, never doubted, Communicated monthly, sit and stare At the new suburb stretched beyond the run-way Where a young man lands hatless from the air.

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

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.

Now if the harvest is over, And the world cold, Give me the bonus of laughter, As I lose hold.

History must not be written with bias, and both sides must be given, even if there is only one side.

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

Silver and ermine and red faces full of port wine.

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

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.

He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book.He staggered—and, terrible-eyed,He brushed past the palms on the staircaseAnd was helped to a hansom outside.

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

Topography is one of my chief themes in my poetry, about the country, the suburbs and the seaside. Then there comes love... and increasingly; the fear of death.

Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows.

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.

Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows.

And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky.

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough! It isn't fit for humans now, There isn't grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death!

Soft and sun-warm, see her glide

Imprisoned in a cage of sound Even the trivial seems profound

God in His mercy sent ye here to me.

Oh better far those echoing hells Half-threaten'd in the pealing bells Than that this 'I' should cease to be—

Child of the First War, forgotten by the Second, We called you Metro-land. We laid our schemes, Lured by the lush brochure, down byways beckoned

It's not their fault they do not know The birdsong from the radio.