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

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.

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

The measured blood beats out the year's delay.

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 cannot believe that the inscrutable universe turns on an axis of suffering; surely the strange beauty of the world must somewhere rest on pure joy!

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.