In a manner of speaking, the poem is its own knower, neither poet nor reader knowing anything that the poem says apart from the words of the poem.

For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.

Men expect too much, do too little.

The Spring I seek is in a new face only.

I believe the term modulation denotes in music the uninterrupted shift from one key to another: I do not know the term for change of rhythm without change of measure.

But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.

Death's long anabasis.