The Initial Mystery that attends any journey is: how did the traveler reach his starting point in the first place?
Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.
O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.
A thousand kindnesses do not make up for a thousand blows.
But childhood prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.
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.