Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.

I can remember only a few of the strange and curious words now dead but living and spoken by the English people a thousand years ago.

There is a warning love sends and the cost of it is never written till long afterward.

I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

I see America, not in the setting sun of a black night of despair ahead of us, I see America in the crimson light of a rising sun fresh from the burning, creative hand of God. I see great days ahead, great days possible to men and women of will and vision.

Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.

Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.