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

Perhaps this very instant is your time.

I don't like quintessential certitude.

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.

All art, in spite of the struggles of some critics to prove otherwise, is based on emotion and projects emotion.