All of Victorian verse is pentameter.

The sigh of History rises over ruins, not over landscapes, and in the Antilles there are few ruins to sigh over, apart from the ruins of sugar estates and abandoned forts.

Who cares about a kid from the Midwest writing pentameter? It's stupid.

The future happens. No matter how much we scream.

There's always more to see.

The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other’s welcome.

We make too much of that long groan which underlines the past.