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.

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

No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square.

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

The intellectual is a middle-class product; if he is not born into the class he must soon insert himself into it, in order to exist. He is the fine nervous flower of the bourgeoisie.

I don't like quintessential certitude.

Perhaps this very instant is your time.