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.

O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.

... 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.

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

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

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

... politics are nothing but sand and gravel: it is art and life that feed us until we die. Everything else is ambition, hysteria or hatred.