Best 28 quotes of John Betjeman on MyQuotes

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 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

And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait Because I have a luncheon date.

Approval of what is approved of Is as false as a well-kept vow.

A whispering and watery Norfolk sound Telling of all the moonlit reeds around.

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.

Hymns are the poetry of the people.

I have a Vision of the Future, chum. The workers flats in fields of soya beans tower up like silver pencils, score on score.

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

I ought to warn you that my verse is of no interest to people who can think.

It's strange that those we miss the most Are those we take for granted.

Lord, reserve for me a crown, And do not let my shares go down.

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

Norfolk would not be Norfolk without a church tower on the horizon or round a corner up a lane. We cannot spare a single Norfolk church. When a church has been pulled down the country seems empty or is like a necklace with a jewel missing.

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

Oh! full Surrey twilight! importunate band! Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!

Oh Wasn't it naughty of Smudges? Oh, Mummy, I'm sick with disgust. She threww me in front of the judges, And my silly old collar-bone's bust.

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.

One mark of good verse is surprise

On out deathbeds we're not going to regret all the work we didn't do. We're going to regret all the sex we didn't have!

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

There are two thing you need for a jolly good hymn.The first is a set of words that expresses the mood or sentiment of the worshipper.The second-and perhaps even more important- is a good tune..with a simple popular melody.

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.

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.

What the Londoner sees in his mind's eye is that cluster of towers and pinnacles seen from Pentonville Hill and outlined against a foggy sunset, and the great arc of Barlow's train shed gaping to devour incoming engines, and the sudden burst of exuberant Gothic of the hotel seen from gloomy Judd Street.

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

Inexpensive Progress Encase your legs in nylons, Bestride your hills with pylons O age without a soul; Away with gentle willows And all the elmy billows That through your valleys roll. Let's say goodbye to hedges And roads with grassy edges And winding country lanes; Let all things travel faster Where motor car is master Till only Speed remains. Destroy the ancient inn-signs But strew the roads with tin signs 'Keep Left,' 'M4,' 'Keep Out!' Command, instruction, warning, Repetitive adorning The rockeried roundabout; For every raw obscenity Must have its small 'amenity,' Its patch of shaven green, And hoardings look a wonder In banks of floribunda With floodlights in between. Leave no old village standing Which could provide a landing For aeroplanes to roar, But spare such cheap defacements As huts with shattered casements Unlived-in since the war. Let no provincial High Street Which might be your or my street Look as it used to do, But let the chain stores place here Their miles of black glass facia And traffic thunder through. And if there is some scenery, Some unpretentious greenery, Surviving anywhere, It does not need protecting For soon we'll be erecting A Power Station there. When all our roads are lighted By concrete monsters sited Like gallows overhead, Bathed in the yellow vomit Each monster belches from it, We'll know that we are dead.