We make too much of that long groan which underlines the past.
For every poet it is always morning in the world; history a forgotten, insomniac night. The fate of poetry is to fall in love with the world in spite of history.
The classics can console. But not enough.
Damn wind shift sudden as a woman mind.
What are men? Children who doubt.
I have never separated the writing of poetry from prayer. I have grown up believing it is a vocation, a religious vocation.