You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.

I knew that I would speak in the language of the vanquished No more durable than old customs, family rituals, Christmas tinsel, and once a year the hilarity of carols.

Poetry is news brought to the mountains by a unicorn and an echo.

If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?

It is impossible to communicate to people who have not experienced it the undefinable menace of total rationalism.

It isn't pleasant to surrender to the hegemony of a nation which is still wild and primitive, and to concede the absolute superiority of its customs and institutions, science and technology, literature and art. Must one sacrifice so much in the name of the unity of mankind?

What is poetry which does not save nations or people?