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.

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

Poetry is not a way of saying things; it's a way of seeing things.

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.

Keelhaul the poets in the vestry chairs.

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

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.