I hope that one or two immortal lyrics will come out of all this tumbling around.

No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.

The poem is always the last resort. In it the poet makes a world in little, and finds peace, even though, under complete focused emotion, the evocation be far more bitter than reality, or far more lovely.

The art of one period cannot be approached through the attitudes (emotional or intellectual) of another.

Hate does not present many choices; if hate is your solution, you are fairly certain to hate all phemonena with equal joy and intensity, without troubling to drag into prominence any one feature from the loathsome whole.

...in a time lacking in truth and certainty and filled with anguish and despair, no woman should be shamefaced in attempting to give back to the world, through her work, a portion of its lost heart.

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.