My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.

Keelhaul the poets in the vestry chairs.

To make the child in your own image is a capital crime, for your image is not worth repeating. The child knows this and you know it. Consequently you hate each other.

The modern essay has regained a good deal of its literary status in our time, much to the credit of Joseph Epstein.

Already old, the question Who shall die? Becomes unspoken Who is innocent?

But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep.

The good poet sticks to his real loves, to see within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.