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.

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.

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

Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.

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

Laughter and grief join hands. Always the heart Clumps in the breast with heavy stride; The face grows lined and wrinkled like a chart, The eyes bloodshot with tears and tide. Let the wind blow, for many a man shall die.