Being a poet is one of the unhealthier jobs--no regular hours, so many temptations!

But he sleeps on the top of his mast with his eyes closed tight. The gull inquired into his dream, which was, "I must not fall. The spangled sea below wants me to fall. It is hard as diamonds; it wants to destroy us all.

Someone loves us all.

Why shouldn't we, so generally addicted to the gigantic, at last have some small works of art, some short poems, short pieces of music [...], some intimate, low-voiced, and delicate things in our mostly huge and roaring, glaring world?

Sometimes it seemsas though only intelligent people are stupid enough to fall in love & only stupid people are intelligent enough to let themselves be loved.

And as to experience-well, think how little some good poets have had, or how much some bad ones have.

It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free.