I am superstitious, not adventurous, sometimes clairvoyant especially where women are concerned, bad at hiding my feelings, and am immoderately amused at bucolic jests and the knockabout side of life in general.
Then by good luck W. B. Yeats, liking my first book of verse, asked me to come and see him. I owe more to him than to any man living, and my intense admiration for his work was reinforced by my intense admiration for himself.
The first literary effort of mine I can remember, bar a few short celebrations of the lives of woodlice, caterpillars, fleas, and suchlike, none of which are extant, was a ballad in so-called Chaucerian language about a sow.