I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream.

The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps... so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.

I went on all over the States, ranting poems to enthusiastic audiences that, the week before, had been equally enthusiastic about lectures on Railway Development or the Modern Turkish Essay.

Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.

The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it.

And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.