I don't like quintessential certitude.

I'll lie here and learn How, over their ground, Trees make a long shadow And a light sound.

A thousand kindnesses do not make up for a thousand blows.

Up from the bronze, I saw Water without a flaw Rush to its rest in air Reach to its rest, and fall.

... how much of our inner substance is it good for us to give to public griefs? The whole modern tendency to agonize over the suffering of the entire globe is surely something new.

Your work is carved out of agony as a statue is carved out of marble.

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.