Perhaps this very instant is your time.

It is almost impossible for the poetess, once laurelled, to take off the crown for good or to reject values and taste of those who tender it.

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

But it's silly to suggest the writing of poetry is something ethereal, a sort of soul-crashing, devastating emotional experience that wrings you. I have no fancy ideas about poetry. ... It doesn't come to you on the wings of a dove. It's something you have to work hard at.

At midnight tears Run into your ears.

I don't like quintessential certitude.

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