The measured blood beats out the year's delay.

The Initial Mystery that attends any journey is: how did the traveler reach his starting point in the first place?

Perhaps this very instant is your time.

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.

... 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.

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

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