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?

A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.

Part of the strength of Pollock and Rothko's art, in fact, is this doubt as to whether art may be there at all.

The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes

... the first step of the terrible journey toward feeling somebody should act, that ends in utter confusion and hopelessness, east of the sun and west of the moon.

Poetry comes to me out of thin air or out of my unconscious mind. It's sort of the way dreams come to us and the way that we get knowledge from them, through television, old movies, which I watch a lot of. Lines of dialogue suddenly seem to be part of a poem.

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