Each servant stamps the reader with a look.

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night, Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes. But will he know where to find you, Recognize you when he sees you, Give you the thing he has for you?

There is the view that poetry should improve your life. I think people confuse it with the Salvation Army.

Much that is beautiful must be discarded So that we may resemble a taller Impression of ourselves.

It never seems to occur to anyone that each reader is different, and that even those who might be said to resemble each other will each bring an individual set of experiences and references to their reading, and interpret and misinterpret it according to these.

To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.

Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?